;-^       ,  *    ••.     • 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Bequest  of 
MARIAN  ALLEN  WILLIAMS 


A      . 


BY 


itt 


Copyright,  1886,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 


All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  FORTRESS  MONROE 1 

II.  CAPE  MAY,  ATLANTIC  CITY 27 

III.  THE  CATSKILLS 54 

IV.  NEWPORT 94 

V.  NARRAGANSETT  PIER  AND  NEWPORT  AGAIN;  MAR- 
THA'S VINEYARD  AND  PLYMOUTH 119 

VI.  MANCHESTER-BY-THE-SEA,  ISLES  OF  SHOALS  ....  154 

VII.  BAR  HARBOR 172 

VIII.  NATURAL  BRIDGE,  WHITE  SULPHUR 202 

IX.  OLD  SWEET  AND  WHITE  SULPHUR 225 

X.  LONG  BRANCH,  OCEAN  GROVE ...  289 

XI.  SARATOGA 250 

XII.  LAKE  GEORGE,  SARATOGA  AGAIN 269 

XIII.  RICHFIELD  SPRINGS,  COOPERSTOWN 281 

XIV.  NIAGARA 397 

XV.  THE  THOUSAND  ISLES 316 

XVI.  WHITE  MOUNTAINS,  LENOX  .  .  337 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

ARRIVAL  AT  FORTRESS  MONROE 3 

AN  EXCURSION 10 

AT   THE   CONSERVATORY 19 

A   DEFENDER   OF   HIS   COUNTRY     .    .    .    . 24 

THE  GOVERNMENT  WHARF,  FORTRESS  MONROE 26 

ON   THE   PIER,  CAPE   MAY 33 

UNCLE  NED  ADJUSTING  THE  TELESCOPE   ..........  39 

JERSEY   TYPES 41 

ATLANTIC  CITY 45 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  ,  . 57 

THE  BRIDE  FROM  KANKAZOO 61 

EXCURSIONISTS 67 

THE  ARTIST'S  FAVORITE  OCCUPATION 74 

THE  ASCENT  TO  KATERSKILL  FALLS 76 

THE  INVALID  GIRL 78 

ON  THE  RED  PATH 80 

"THE  DANGER  INCREASED  AS  SHE  DESCENDED" 82 

AT  THE  CASINO,  NEWPORT '88 

MEMBERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 93 

FIVE-O'CLOCK  TEA 107 

A  CATAMARAN .  . 121 

CAUGHT  BY  THE  TIDE 126 

' '  MINISTERING  ANGELS  "  AT  THE  SEA -SIDE  HOTEL    ....  133 


vi  Illustrations. 

PAGE 

AN  INTERIOR 136 

"A  CARICATURE  OP  HUMANITY" 141 

LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  MARTHA'S  VINEYARD 142 

THE  MODEL  HUSBAND 145 

"LOOKING   SEAWARD,  AS  WAS  THE   WONT   OF  PURITAN 

MAIDENS" 150 

THE  LAST  PASSENGER 161 

A  MINIATURE  HARBOR 164 

ARRIVAL   OF   THE   MAIL 167 

"A  NOOK  TO  DREAM  IN  AND  MAKE  LOVE  IN" 170 

ON  THE  PIAZZA  AT  RODICK's 176 

BALLROOM   ETIQUETTE 179 

CANOEING  AT   BAR   HARBOR 181 

CLIMBING   UP  NEWPORT 188 

A  BAR  HARBOR  BUCK-BOARD 189 

INDIAN   VILLAGE,  BAR  HARBOR 191 

THE  WATERMELON   PARTY 197 

NEGRO  WAITER 206 

"HAVEN'T  i  WAITED  ON  YOU  BEFO',  SAH  ?" 207 

POLITICS  AND  CIGARS 214 

THE  MORNIN.G  GERMAN 215 

FLIRTATION   ON   THE   LAWN 219 

COLONEL  FANE 223 

"THE  ANXIOUS  FACES  OF   THE  MOTHERS" 225 

COLORED  NURSES 227 

"SHE  WAS  IN  HIS  ARMS " 237 

AT  THE  RACES , 243 

A  DRIVE  TO  ELBERON 244 

IN  THE  SURF 247 

"SOLEMN  MEN  WHO  SAID  LITTLE,  BUT  LOOKED  RICH".  .  252 

MORNING  AT  THE  SPRING 255 


Illustrations.  vii 

PAGE 

AN  "OFFICER" 261 

ON  THE  BOAT,  LAKE  GEORGE 270 

A  BROOM  DRILL,  LAKE  GEORGE 275 

' '  THE  OATEN  PIPE  UNDER  THE  SPREADING  MAPLES  "...  282 
"LET  us  PASS  UNDER  THE  FESTOONS  OF  THE  HOP- VINES"  283 

IN  THE   SMOKING-BOOM 287 

"WHY,  WHAT  HAS  COME  OVER  YOU,  OLD  MAN" 294 

"WHO  SAID  'FANCY'  AND  'NOW,  REALLY!'" 298 

MUZZLED  HACKMEN 303 

A  PARTY  IN  OIL-SKINS 309 

' '  A  BAND  OF  INDIANS " 317 

ILLUMINATING 322 

ALEXANDRIA  BAY 325 

"A  SORT  OF  LINEN-DUSTER  CONGREGATION" 328 

A  FISHERMAN 331 

A  HALT  FOR  THE  VIEW 338 

THE  OBSERVATION  CAR 345 

AN  EPISTLE  FROM  THE  SUMMIT 347 

THE  CLOUDS  BREAKING 349 

FISHING-LODGE,  LONESOME  LAKE 357 

"THE  LINES  WERE  INEXTRICABLY  TANGLED" 359 

THE  END     .  .    363 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHEX  Irene  looked  out  of  her  stateroom  window 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  twentieth  of  March,  there 
was  a  softness  and  luminous  quality  in  the  horizon 
clouds  that  prophesied  spring.  The  steamboat,  which 
had  left  Baltimore  and  an  arctic  temperature  the 
night  before,  was  drawing  near  the  wharf  at  Fortress 
Monroe,  and  the  passengers,  most  of  whom  were  seek- 
ing a  mild  climate,  were  crowding  the  guards,  eager- 
ly scanning  the  long  fa9ade  of  the  Hygeia  Hotel. 

"It  looks  more  like  a  conservatory  than  a  hotel," 
said  Irene  to  her  father,  as  she  joined  him. 

"  I  expect  that's  about  what  it  is.  All  those  long 
corridors  above  and  below  enclosed  in  glass  are  to 
protect  the  hothouse  plants  of  New  York  and  Bos- 
ton, who  call  it  a  Winter  Resort,  and  I  guess  there's 
considerable  winter  in  it." 

"  But  how  charming  it  is — the  soft  sea  air,  the  low 
capes  yonder,  the  sails  in  the  opening  shining  in  the. 
haze,  and  the  peaceful  old  fort!  I  think  it's  just  en- 
chanting." 

"  I  suppose  it  is.     Get  a  thousand  people  crowded 
into  one  hotel  under  glass,  and  let  'em  buzz  around — 
1 


2  Their  Pilgrimage. 

that  seems  to  be  the  present  notion  of  enjoyment.  I 
guess  your  mother'll  like  it." 

And  she  did.  Mrs.  Benson,  who  appeared  at  the 
moment,  a  little  flurried  with  her  hasty  toilet,  a  stout, 
matronly  person,  rather  overdressed  for  travelling,  ex- 
claimed: "What  a  homelike  looking  place!  I  do 
hope  the  Stimpsons  are  here!" 

"No  doubt  the  Stimpsons  are  on  hand,"  said  Mr. 
Benson.  "  Catch  them  not  knowing  what's  the  right 
thing  to  do  in  March!  They  know  just  as  well  as  you 
do  that  the  Reynoldses  and  the  Van  Peagrims  are 
here." 

The  crowd  of  passengers,  alert  to  register  and  se- 
cure rooms,  hurried  up  the  windy  wharf.  The  inte- 
rior of  the  hotel  kept  the  promise  of  the  outside  for 
comfort.  Behind  the  glass-defended  verandas,  in  the 
spacious  office  and  general  lounging-room,  sea-coal 
fires  glowed  in  the  wide  grates,  tables  were  heaped 
with  newspapers  and  the  illustrated  pamphlets  in 
which  railways  and  hotels  set  forth  the  advantages 
of  leaving  home ;  luxurious  chairs  invited  the  lazy 
and  the  tired,  and  the  hotel-bureau,  telegraph-office, 
railway-office,  and  post-office  showed  the  new-comer 
that  even  in  this  resort  he  was  still  in  the  centre  of 
activity  and  uneasiness.  The  Bensons,  who  had  for- 
tunately secured  rooms  a  month  in  advance,  sat  quiet- 
ly waiting  while  the  crowd  filed  before  the  register, 
and  took  its  fate  from  the  courteous  autocrat  behind 
the  counter.  "  No  room,"  was  the  nearly  uniform  an- 
swer, and  the  travellers  had  the  satisfaction  of  writ- 
ing their  names  and  going  their  way  in  search  of  en- 
tertainment. "  We've  eight  hundred  people  stowed 


ARRIVAL  AT  FORTRESS  MONROE. 

away,"  said  the  clerk,  "  and  not  a  spot  left  for  a  hen 
to  roost."  , 

At  the  end  of  the  file  Irene  noticed  a  gentleman, 
clad  in  a  perfectly-fitting  rough  travelling  suit,  with 


4  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  inevitable  crocodile  hand-bag  and  tightly-rolled 
umbrella,  who  made  no  effort  to  enroll  ahead  of  any 
one  else,  but  having  procured  some  letters  from  the 
post-office  clerk,  patiently  waited  till  the  rest  were 
turned  away,  and  then  put  down  his  name.  He  might 
as  well  have  written  it  in  his  hat.  The  deliberation 
of  the  man,  who  appeared  to  be  an  old  traveller, 
though  probably  not  more  than  thirty  years  of  age, 
attracted  Irene's  attention,  and  she  could  not  help 
hearing  the  dialogue  that  followed. 

"  What  can  you  do  for  me  ?*' 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Can't  you  stow  me  away  anywhere?  It  is  Satur- 
day, and  very  inconvenient  for  me  to  go  any  farther." 

"  Cannot  help  that.     We  haven't  an  inch  of  room." 

"Well,  where  can  I  go ?" 

"  You  can  go  to  Baltimore.  You  can  go  to  Wash- 
ington ;  or  you  can  go  to  Richmond  this  afternoon. 
You  can  go  anywhere." 

"  Couldn't  I,"  said  the  stranger,  with  the  same  de- 
liberation— "  wouldn't  you  let  me  go  to  Charleston  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  clerk,  a  little  surprised,  but  dis- 
posed to  accommodate — "  why,  yes,  you  can  go  to 
Charleston.  If  you  take  at  once  the  boat  you  have 
just  left,  I  guess  you  can  catch  the  train  at  Nor- 
folk." 

As  the  traveller  turned  and  called  a  porter  to  re- 
ship  his  baggage,  he  was  met  by  a  lady,  who  greeted 
him  with  the  cordiality  of  an  old  acquaintance  and  a 
volley  of  questions. 

"Why,  Mr. King, this  is  good  luck.  When  did  you 
come  ?  have  you  a  good  room  ?  What,  no,  not  going  ?" 


Their  Pilgrimage.  5 

Mr.  King  explained  that  he  had  been  a  resident  of 
Hampton  Roads  just  fifteen  minutes,  and  that,  hav- 
ing had  a  pretty  good  view  of  the  place,  he  was  then 
making  his  way  out  of  the  door  to  Charleston,  with- 
out any  breakfast,  because  there  was  no  room  in  the 
inn. 

"  Oh,  that  never'll  do.  That  cannot  be  permitted," 
said  his  engaging  friend,  with  an  air  of  determination. 
"  Besides,  I  want  you  to  go  with  us  on  an  excursion 
to-day  up  the  James  and  help  me  chaperon  a  lot  of 
young  ladies.  No,  you  cannot  go  away." 

And  before  Mr.  Stanhope  King — for  that  was  the 
name  the  traveller  had  inscribed  on  the"  register — 
knew  exactly  what  had  happened,  by  some  mysteri- 
ous power  which  women  can  exercise  even  in  a  hotel, 
when  they  choose,  he  found  himself  in  possession  of 
a  room,  and  was  gayly  breakfasting  with  a  merry 
party  at  a  little  round  table  in  the  dining-room. 

"  He  appears  to  know  everybody,"  was  Mrs.  Ben- 
son's comment  to  Irene,  as  she  observed  his  greeting 
of  one  and  another  as  the  guests  tardily  came  down 
to  breakfast.  "Any  way,  he's  a  genteel-looking  party. 
I  wonder  if  he  belongs  to  Sotor,  King,  and  Co.,  of 
New  York  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,"  began  Irene,  with  a  quick  glance  at 
the  people  at  the  next  table ;  and  then,  "  if  he  is  a 
genteel  party,  very  likely  he's  a  drummer.  The 
drummers  know  everybody." 

And  Irene  confined  her  attention  strictly  to  her 
breakfast,  and  never  looked  up,  although  Mrs.  Ben- 
son kept  prattling  away  about  the  young  man's  ap- 
pearance, wondering  if  his  eyes  were  dark  blue  or 


6  Their  Pilgrimage. 

only  dark  gray,  and  why  he  didn't  part  his  hair  ex- 
actly in  the  middle  and  done  with  it,  and  a  full,  close 
beard  was  becoming,  and  he  had  a  good,  frank  face 
anyway,  and  why  didn't  the  Stimpsons  come  down  ; 
and,  "  Oh,  there's  the  Van  Peagrims,"  and  Mrs.  Ben- 
son bowed  sweetly  and  repeatedly  to  somebody  across 
the  room. 

To  an  angel,  or  even  to  that  approach  to  an  angel 
in  this  world,  a  person  who  has  satisfied  his  appetite, 
the  spectacle  of  a  crowd  of  people  feeding  together 
in  a  large  room  must  be  a  little  humiliating.  The 
fact  is  that  no  animal  appears  at  its  best  in  this  neces- 
sary occupation.  But  a  hotel  breakfast-room  is  not 
without  interest.  The  very  way  in  which  people  en- 
ter the  room  is  a  revelation  of  character.  Mr.  King, 
who  was  put  in  good-humor  by  falling  on  his  feet,  as 
it  were,  in  such  agreeable  company,  amused  himself 
by  studying  the  guests  as  they  entered.  There  was 
the  portly,  florid  man,  who  "swelled"  in,  patronizing 
the  entire  room,  followed  by  a  meek  little  wife  and 
three  timid  children.  There  was  the  broad,  dowager 
woman,  preceded  by  a  meek,  shrinking  little  man, 
whose  whole  appearance  was  an  apology.  There  was 
a  modest  young  couple  who  looked  exceedingly  self- 
conscious  and  happy,  and  another  couple,  not  quite  so 
young,  who  were  not  conscious  of  anybody,  the  gen- 
tleman giving  a  curt  order  to  the  waiter,  and  falling 
at  once  to  reading  a  newspaper,  while  his  wife  took  a 
listless  attitude,  which  seemed  to  have  become  second 
nature.  There  were  two  very  tall,  very  graceful,  very 
high-bred  girls  in  semi-mourning,  accompanied  by  a 
nice  lad  in  tight  clothes,  a  model  of  propriety  and 


Their  Pilgrimage.  7 

slender  physical  resources,  who  perfectly  reflected  the 
gracious  elevation  of  his  sisters.  There  was  a  prepon- 
derance of  women,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  in  such  re- 
sorts. A  fact  explicable  not  on  the  theory  that  wom- 
en are  more  delicate  than  men,  but  that  American 
men  are  too  busy  to  take  this  sort  of  relaxation,  and 
that  the  care  of  an  establishment,  with  the  demands 
of  society  and  the  worry  of  servants,  so  draw  upon 
the  nervous  energy  of  women  that  they  are  glad  to 
escape  occasionally  to  the  irresponsibility  of  hotel  life. 
Mr.  King  noticed  that  many  of  the  women  had  the 
unmistakable  air  of  familiarity  with  this  sort  of  life, 
both  in  the  dining-room  and  at  the  office,  and  were 
not  nearly  so  timid  as  some  of  the  men.  And  this 
was  very  observable  in  the  case  of  the  girls,  who 
were  chaperoning  their  mothers — shrinking  women 
who  seemed  a  little  confused  by  the  bustle,  and  a  lit- 
tle awed  by  the  machinery  of  the  great  caravansary. 

At  length  Mr.  King's  eye  fell  upon  the  Benson 
group.  Usually  it  is  unfortunate  that  a  young  lady 
should  be  observed  for  the  first  time  at  table.  The 
act  of  eating  is  apt  to  be  disenchanting.  It  needs 
considerable  infatuation  and  perhaps  true  love  on  the 
part  of  a  young  man  to  make  him  see  anything  agree- 
able in  this  performance.  However  attractive  a  girl 
may  be,  the  man  may  be  sure  that  he  is  not  in  love  if 
his  admiration  cannot  stand  this  test.  It  is  saying  a 
great  deal  for  Irene  that  she  did  stand  this  test  even 
under  the  observation  of  a  stranger,  and  that  she  han- 
dled her  fork,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  in  a 
manner  to  make  the  fastidious  Mr.  King  desirous  to 
see  more  of  her.  I  am  aware  that  this  is  a  very  un- 


8  Their  Pilgrimage. 

romantic  view  to  take  of  one  of  the  sweetest  subjects 
in  life,  and  I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  should  prefer 
that  Mr.  King  should  first  have  seen  Irene  leaning  on 
the  balustrade  of  the  gallery,  with  a  rose  in  her  hand, 
gazing  out  over  the  sea  with  "  that  far-away  look  in 
her  eyes."  It  would  have  made  it  much  easier  for  all 
of  us.  But  it  is  better  to  tell  the  truth,  and  let  the 
girl  appear  in  the  heroic  attitude  of  being  superior  to 
her  circumstances. 

Presently  Mr.  King  said  to  his  friend,  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt,  "  Who  is  that  clever-looking,  graceful  girl  over 
there  ?" 

"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  looking  intently  in  the 
direction  indicated — "  why,  so  it  is  ;  that's  just  the 
thing,"  and  without  another  word  she  darted  across 
the  room,  and  Mr.  King  saw  her  in  animated  conver- 
sation with  the  young  lady.  Returning  with  satisfac- 
tion expressed  in  her  face,  she  continued,  "  Yes,  she'll 
join  our  party — without  her  mother.  How  lucky  you 
saw  her  !" 

"  Well !     Is  it  the  Princess  of  Paphlagonia  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  you  were  not  in  Washington  last 
winter.  That's  Miss  Benson  ;  just  charming  ;  you'll 
see.  Family  came  from  Ohio  somewhere.  You'll  see 
what  they  are — but  Irene  !  Yes,  you  needn't  ask  ; 
they've  got  money,  made  it  honestly.  Began  at  the 
bottom  —  as  if  they  were  in  training  for  the  presi- 
dency, you  know — the  mother  hasn't  got  used  to  it 
as  much  as  the  father.  You  know  how  it  is.  But 
Irene  has  had  every  advantage — the  best  schools,  mas- 
ters, foreign  travel,  everything.  Poor  girl  !  I'm  sor- 
ry for  her.  Sometimes  I  wish  there  wasn't  any  such 


Their  Pilgrimage.  9 

thing  as  education  in  this  country,  except  for  the  edu- 
cated. She  never  shows  it  ;  but  of  course  she  must 
see  what  her  relatives  are." 

The  Hotel  Hygeia  has  this  advantage,  which  is  ap- 
preciated, at  least  by  the  young  ladies.  The  United 
States  fort  is  close  at  hand,  with  its  quota  of  young 
officers,  who  have  the  leisure  in  times  of  peace  to  pre- 
pare for  war,  domestic  or  -foreign  ;  and  there  is  a  na- 
val station  across  the  bay,  with  vessels  that  need  fash- 
ionable inspection.  Considering  the  acknowledged 
scarcity  of  young  men  at  watering-places,  it  is  the 
duty  of  a  paternal  government  to  place  its  military 
and  naval  stations  close  to  the  fashionable  resorts,  so 
that  the  young  women  who  are  studying  the  german 
and  other  branches  of  the  life  of  the  period  can  have 
agreeable  assistants.  It  is  the  charm  of  Fortress 
Monroe  that  its  heroes  are  kept  from  ennui  by  the 
company  assembled  there,  and  that  they  can  be  of 
service  to  society. 

When  Mrs.  Cortlandt  assembled  her  party  on  the 
steam  -  tug  chartered  by  her  for  the  excursion,  the 
army  was  very  well  represented.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  the  chaperons  and  a  bronzed  veteran,  who 
was  inclined  to  direct  the  conversation  to  his  Indian 
campaigns  in  the  Black  Hills,  the  company  was  young, 
and  of  the  age  and  temper  in  which  everything  seems 
fair  in  love  and  war,  and  one  that  gave  Mr.  King,  if 
he  desired  it,  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  girl  of 
the  period — the  girl  who  impresses  the  foreigner  with 
her  extensive  knowledge  of  life,  her  fearless  freedom 
of  manner,  and  about  whom  he  is  apt  to  make  the 
mistake  of  supposing  that  this  freedom  has  not  per- 


,-.^ 


AN   EXCURSION. 

fectly  well  defined  limits.  It  was  a  delightful  day, 
such  as  often  comes,  even  in  winter,  within  the  Capes 
of  Virginia  ;  the  sun  was  genial,  the  bay  was  smooth, 
with  only  a  light  breeze  that  kept  the  water  sparkling 
brilliantly,  and  just  enough  tonic  in  the  air  to  excite 
the  spirits.  The  little  tug,  which  was  pretty  well 


Their  Pilgrimage.  11 

packed  with  the  merry  company,  was  swift,  and 
danced  along  in  an  exhilarating  manner.  The  bay, 
as  everybody  knows,  is  one  of  the  most  commodious 
in  the  world,  and  would  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
if  it  had  hills  to  overlook  it.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a 
tranquil  beauty  in  its  wooded  headlands  and  long 
capes,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  early  explorers 
were  charmed  with  it,  or  that  they  lost  their  way  in 
its  inlets,  rivers,  and  bays.  The  company  at  first 
made  a  pretence  of  trying  to  understand  its  geogra- 
phy, and  asked  a  hundred  questions  about  the  bat- 
teries, and  whence  the  Merrimac  appeared,  and  where 
the  Congress  was  sunk,  and  from  what  place  the  Mon- 
itor darted  out  upon  its  big  antagonist.  But  every- 
thing was  on  a  scale  so  vast  that  it  was  difficult  to 
localize  these  petty  incidents  (big  as  they  were  in 
consequences),  and  the  party  soon  abandoned  history 
arid  geography  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment. 
Song  began  to  take  the  place  of  conversation.  A 
couple  of  banjos  were  produced,  and  both  the  facility 
and  the  repertoire  of  the  young  ladies  who  handled 
them  astonished  Irene.  The  songs  were  of  love  and 
summer  seas,  chansons  in  French,  minor  melodies  in 
Spanish,  plain  declarations  of  aifection  in  distinct 
English,  flung  abroad  with  classic  abandon,  and  caught 
up  by  the  chorus  in  lilting  strains  that  partook  of  the 
bounding,  exhilarating  motion  of  the  little  steamer. 
Why,  here  is  material,  thought  King,  for  a  troupe 
of  bacchantes,  light-hearted  leaders  of  a  summer  fes- 
tival. What  charming  girls,  quick  of  wit,  dashing  in 
repartee,  who  can  pick  the  strings,  troll  a  song,  and 
dance  a  brando  ! 


12  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  It's  like  sailing  over  the  Bay  of  Naples,"  Irene 
was  saying  to  Mr.  King,  who  had  found  a  seat  beside 
her  in  the  little  cabin  ;  "  the  guitar-strumming  and 
the  impassioned  songs,  only  that  always  seems  to  me 
a  manufactured  gayety,  an  attempt  to  cheat  the  trav- 
eller into  the  belief  that  all  life  is  a  holiday.  This  is 
spontaneous." 

"  Yes,  and  I  suppose  the  ancient  Roman  gayety,  of 
which  the  Neapolitan  is  an  echo,  was  spontaneous 
once.  I  wonder  if  our  society  is  getting  to  dance  and 
frolic  along  like  that  of  old  at  Baise." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  King,  this  is  an  excursion.  I  assure  you 
the  American  girl  is  a  serious  and  practical  person 
most  of  the  time.  You've  been  away  so  long  that 
your  standards  are  wrong.  She's  not  nearly  so  know- 
ing as  she  seems  to  be." 

The  boat  was  preparing  to  land  at  Newport  News 
— a  sand  bank,  with  a  railway  terminus,  a  big  eleva- 
tor, and  a  hotel.  The  party  streamed  along  in  laugh- 
ing and  chatting  groups,  through  the  warehouse  and 
over  the  tracks  and  the  sandy  hillocks  to  the  hotel. 
On  the  way  they  captured  a  novel  conveyance,  a  cart 
with  an  ox  harnessed  in  the  shafts,  the  property  of  an 
aged  negro,  whose  white  hair  and  variegated  raiment 
proclaimed  him  an  ancient  Virginian,  a  survival  of 
the  war.  The  company  chartered  this  establishment, 
and  swarmed  upon  it  till  it  looked  like  a  Neapolitan 
calesso,  and  the  procession  might  have  been  mistaken 
for.  a  harvest-home — the  harvest  of  beauty  and  fash- 
ion. The  hotel  was  captured  without  a  struggle  on 
the  part  of  the  regular  occupants,  a  dance  extempor- 
ized in  the  dining-room,  and  before  the  magnitude  of 


Their  Pilgrimage.  13 

the  invasion  was  realized  by  the  garrison,  the  dancing 
feet  and  the  laughing  girls  were  away  again,  and  the 
little  boat  was  leaping  along  in  the  Elizabeth  River 
towards  the  Portsmouth  Navy-yard. 

It  isn't  a  model  war  establishment  this  Portsmouth 
yard,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  resort,  with  its  stately  bar- 
racks and  open  square  and  occasional  trees.  In  noth- 
ing does  the  American  woman  better  show  her  patri- 
otism than  in  her  desire  to  inspect  naval  vessels  and 
understand  dry-docks  under  the  guidance  of  naval 
officers.  Besides  some  old  war  hulks  at  the  station, 
there  were  a  couple  of  training-ships  getting  ready 
for  a  cruise,  and  it  made  one  proud  of  his  country  to 
see  the  interest  shown  by  our  party  in  everything  on 
board  of  them,  patiently  listening  to  the  explanation 
of  the  breech-loading  guns,  diving  down  into  the  be- 
tween-decks,  crowded  with  the  schoolboys,  where  it 
is  impossible  for  a  man  to  stand  upright  and  difficult 
to  avoid  the  stain  of  paint  and  tar,  or  swarming  in 
the  cabin,  eager  to  know  the  mode  of  the  officers'  life 
at  sea.  So  those  are  the  little  places  where  they  sleep  ? 
and  here  is  where  they  dine,  and  here  is  a  library — a 
hap-hazard  case  of  books  in  the  saloon.  It  was  in 
running  her  eyes  over  these  that  a  young  lady  dis- 
covered that  the  novels  of  Zola  were  among  the  nau- 
tical works  needed  in  the  navigation  of  a  ship  of  war. 

On  the  return — and  the  twenty  miles  seemed  short 
enough — lunch  was  served,  and  was  the  occasion  of  a 
good  deal  of  hilarity  and  innocent  Badinage.  There 
were  those  who  still  sang,  and  insisted  on  sipping  the 
heel-taps  of  the  'morning  gayety ;  but  was  King  mis- 
taken in  supposing  that  a  little  seriousness  had  stolen 


14  Their  Pilgrimage. 

upon  the  party — a  serious  intention,  namely,  between 
one  and  another  couple  ?  The  wind  had  risen,  for 
one  thing,  and  the  little  boat  was  so  tossed  about  by 
the  vigorous  waves  that  the  skipper  declared  it  would 
be  imprudent  to  attempt  to  land  on  the  Rip-Raps. 
Was  it  the  thought  that  the  day  was  over,  and  that 
underneath  all  chaff  and  hilarity  there  was  the  ques- 
tion of  settling  in  life  to  be  met  some  time,  which 
subdued  a  little  the  high  spirits,  and  gave  an  air  of 
protection  and  of  tenderness  to  a  couple  here  and 
there?  Consciously,  perhaps,  this  entered  into  the 
thought  of  nobody ;  but  still  the  old  story  will  go  on, 
and  perhaps  all  the  more  rapidly  under  a  mask  of 
raillery  and  merriment. 

There  was  great  bustling  about,  hunting  up  wraps 
and  lost  parasols  and  mislaid  gloves,  and  a  chorus  of 
agreement  on  the  delight  of  the  day,  upon  going 
ashore,  and  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  who  looked  the  youngest 
and  most  animated  of  the  flock,  was  quite  over- 
whelmed with  thanks  and  congratulations  upon  the 
success  of  her  excursion. 

"  Yes,  it  was  perfect  ;  you've  given  us  all  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,  Mrs.  Cortlandt,"  Mr.  King  was  say- 
ing, as  he  stood  beside  her,  watching  the  exodus. 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Cortlandt  fancied  his  eyes  were  fol- 
lowing a  particular  figure,  for  she  responded,  "And 
how  did  you  like  her  ?" 

"  Like  her — Miss  Benson  ?  Why,  I  didn't  see  much 
of  her.  I  thought  she  was  very  intelligent — seemed 
very  much  interested  when  Lieutenant  Green  was  ex- 
plaining to  her  what  made  the  dry-dock  dry — but 
they  were  all  that.  Did  you  say  her  eyes  were  gray  ? 


Their  Pilgrimage.  15 

I  couldn't  make  out  if  they  were  not  rather  blue, 
after  all — large,  changeable  sort  of  eyes,  long  lashes  ; 
eyes  that  look  at  you  seriously  and  steadily,  without 
the  least  bit  of  coquetry  or  worldliness  ;  eyes  express- 
ing simplicity  and  interest  in  what  you  are  saying — 
not  in  you,  but  in  what  you  are  saying.  So  few 
women  know  how  to  listen  ;  most  women  appear  to 
be  thinking  of  themselves  and  the  effect  they  are  pro- 
ducing." 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  laughed.  "  Ah  ;  I  see.  And  a  little 
'  sadness '  in  them,  wasn't  there  ?  Those  are  the  most 
dangerous  eyes.  The  sort  that  follow  you,  that  you 
see  in  the  dark  at  night  after  the  gas  is  turned  off." 

"  I  haven't  the  faculty  of  seeing  things  in  the  dark, 
Mrs.  Cortlandt.  Oh,  there's  the  mother  !"  And  the 
shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Benson  was  heard,  "  We  was  get- 
ting uneasy  about  you.  Pa  says  a  storm's  coming, 
and  that  you'd  be  sick  as  sick." 

The  weather  was  changing.  But  that  evening  the 
spacious  hotel,  luxurious,  perfectly  warmed,  and  well 
lighted,  crowded  with  an  agreeable  if  not  a  brilliant 
company — for  Mr.  King  noted  the  fact  that  none  of 
the  gentlemen  dressed  for  dinner  —  seemed  all  the 
more  pleasant  for  the  contrast  with  the  weather  out-^ 
side.  Thus  housed,  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  waves 
dashing  against  the  breakwater.  Just  by  chance,  in 
the  ballroom,  Mr.  King  found  himself  seated  by  Mrs. 
Benson  and  a  group  of  elderly  ladies,  who  had  the 
perfunctory  air  of  liking  the  mild  gayety  of  the  place. 
To  one  of  them  Mr.  King  was  presented,  Mrs.  Stimp- 
son— a  stout  woman  with  a  broad  red  face  and  fishy 
eyes,  wearing  an  elaborate  head-dress  with  purple 


16  Their  Pilgrimage. 

flowers,  and  attired  as  if  she  were  expecting  to  take  a 
prize.  Mrs.  Stimpson  was  loftily  condescending,  and 
asked  Mr.  King  if  this  was  his  first  visit.  She'd  been 
coming  here  years  and  years ;  never  could  get  through 
the  spring  without  a  few  weeks  at  the  Hygeia.  Mr. 
King  saw  a  good  many  people  at  this  hotel  who 
seemed  to  regard  it  as  a  home. 

"  I  hope  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Benson,  was  not  tired 
out  with  the  rather  long  voyage  to-day." 

"Not  a  mite.  I  guess  she  enjoyed  it.  She  don't 
seem  to  enjoy  most  things.  She's  got  everything 
heart  can  wish  at  home.  I  don't  know  how  it  is.  I 
was  tellin'  pa,  Mr.  Benson,  to-day  that  girls  ain't  what 
they  used  to  be  in  my  time.  Takes  more  to  satisfy 
'em..  Now  my  daughter,  if  I  say  it  as  shouldn't,  Mr. 
King,  there  ain't  a  better  appearing  nor  smarter,  nor 
more  dutiful  girl  anywhere — well,  I  just  couldn't  live 
without  her  ;  and  she's  had  the  best  schools  in  the 
East  and  Europe  ;  done  all  Europe  and  Rome  and 
Italy  ;  and,  after  all,  somehow,  she  don't  seem  con- 
tented in  Cyrusville — that's  where  we  live  in  Ohio — 
one  of  the  smartest  places  in  the  state ;  grown  right 
up  to  be  a  city  since  we  was  married.  She  never  says 
anything,  but  I  can  see.  And  we  haven't  spared  any- 
thing on  owr  house.  And  society — there's  a  great 
deal  more  society  than  I  ever  had." 

Mr.  King  might  have  been  astonished  at  this  out- 
pouring if  he  had  not  observed  that  it  is  precisely  in 
hotels  and  to  entire  strangers  that  some  people  are 
apt  to  talk  with  less  reserve  than  to  intimate  friends. 

"I've  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "you  have  a  lovely  home 
in  Cyrusville." 


Their  Pilgrimage.  17 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  got  all  the  improvements.  Pa, 
Mr.  Benson,  said  that  he  didn't  know  of  anything  that 
had  been  left  out,  and  we  had  a  man  up  from  Cin- 
cinnati, who  did  all  the  furnishing  before  Irene  came 
home." 

"Perhaps  your  daughter  would  have  preferred  to 
furnish  it  herself  ?" 

"  Mebbe  so.  She  said  it  was  splendid,  but  it  looked 
like  somebody  else's  house.  She  says  the  queerest 
things  sometimes.  I  told  Mr.  Benson  that  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  go  away  from  home  a 
little  while  and  travel  round.  I've  never  been  away 
much  except  in  New  York,  where  Mr.  Benson  has 
business  a  good  deal.  We've  been  in  Washington 
this  winter." 

"  Are  you  going  farther  south  ?" 

"Yes;  we  calculate  to  go  down  to  the  New  Or- 
leans Centennial.  Pa  wants  to  see  the  Exposition, 
and  Irene  wants  to  see  what  the  South  looks  like,  and 
so  do  I.  I  suppose  it's  perfectly  safe  now,  so  long 
after  the  war  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  say  so." 

"That's  what  Mr.  Benson  says.  He  says  it's  all 
nonsense  the  talk  about  what  the  South  '11  do  now 
the  Democrats  are  in.  He  says  the  South  wants  to 
make  money,  and  wants  the  country  prosperous  as 
much  as  anybody.  Yes,  we  are  going  to  take  a  reg- 
ular tour  all  summer  round  to  the  different  places 
where  people  go.  Irene  calls  it  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
holy  places  of  America.  Pa  thinks  we'll  get  enough 
of  it,  and  he's  determined  we  shall  have  enough  of 
it  for  once.  I  suppose  we  shall.  I  like  to  travel, 
2 


18  Their  Pilgrimage. 

but  I  haven't  seen  any  place  better  than  Cyrusville 
yet." 

As  Irene  did  not  make  her  appearance,  Mr.  King 
tore  himself  away  from  this  interesting  conversa- 
tion and  strolled  about  the  parlors,  made  engage- 
ments to  take  early  coffee  at  the  fort,  to  go  to 
church  with  Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  her  friends,  and 
afterwards  to  drive  over  to  Hampton  and  see  the 
copper  and  other  colored  schools,  talked  a  little  pol- 
itics over  a  late  cigar,  and  then  went  to  bed,  rather 
curious  to  see  if  the  eyes  that  Mrs.  Cortlandt  regard- 
ed as  so  dangerous  would  appear  to  him  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

When  he  awoke,  his  first  faint  impressions  were 
that  the  Hygeia  had  drifted  out  to  sea,  and  then  that 
a  dense  fog  had  drifted  in  and  enveloped  it.  But 
this  illusion  was  speedily  dispelled.  The  window- 
ledge  was  piled  high  with  snow.  Snow  filled  the  air, 
whirled  about  by  a  gale  that  was  banging  the  win- 
dow-shutters and  raging  exactly  like  a  Northern  tem- 
pest. It  swirled  the  snow  about  in  waves  and  dark 
masses  interspersed  with  rifts  of  light,  dark  here  and 
luminous  there.  The  Rip-Raps  were  lost  to  view. 
Out  at  sea  black  clouds  hung  in  the  horizon,  heavy 
reinforcements  for  the  attacking  storm.  The  ground 
was  heaped  with  the  still  fast-falling  snow — ten  inches 
deep  he  heard  it  said  when  he  descended.  The  Bal- 
timore boat  had  not  arrived,  and  could  not  get  in. 
The  waves  at  the  wharf  rolled  in,  black  and  heavy, 
with  a  sullen  beat,  and  the  sky  shut  down  close  to  the 
water,  except  when  a  sudden  stronger  gust  of  wind 
cleared  a  luminous  space  for  an  instant.  Storm- 


bound  :  that  is  what  the  Hygeia  was — a  winter  resort 
without  any  doubt. 

The  hotel  was  put  to  a  test  of  its  qualities.  There 
was  no  getting  abroad  in  such  a  storm.  But  the  Hy- 
geia appeared  at  its  best  in  this  emergency.  The 
long  glass  corridors,  where  no  one  could  venture 


20  Their  Pilgrimage. 

in  the  arctic  temperature,  gave,  nevertheless,  an  air 
of  brightness  and  cheerfulness  to  the  interior,  where 
big  fires  blazed,  and  the  company  were  exalted  into 
good-fellowship  and  gayety — a  decorous  Sunday  gay- 
ety — by  the  elemental  war  from  which  they  were  se- 
curely housed. 

If  the  defenders  of  their  country  in  the  fortress 
mounted  guard  that  morning,  the  guests  at  the  Hy- 
geia  did  not  see  them,  but  a  good  many  of  them 
mounted  guard  later  at  the  hotel,  and  offered  to  the 
young  ladies  there  that  protection  which  the  brave 
like  to  give  the  fair.  Notwithstanding  this,  Mr.  Stan- 
hope King  could  not  say  the  day  was  dull.  After  a 
morning  presumably  spent  over  works  of  a  religious 
character,  some  of  the  young  ladies,  who  had  been  the 
life  of  the  excursion  the  day  before,  showed  their  ver- 
satility by  devising  serious  amusements  befitting  the 
day,  such  as  twenty  questions  on  Scriptural  subjects, 
palmistry,  which  on  another  day  is  an  aid  to  mild 
flirtation,  and  an  exhibition  of  mind-reading,  not  pub- 
lic— oh  dear,  no — but  with  a  favored  group  in  a  pri- 
vate parlor.  In  none  of  these  groups,  however,  did 
Mr.  King  find  Miss  Benson,  and  when  he  encountered 
her  after  dinner  in  the  reading-room,  she  confessed 
that  she  had  declined  an  invitation  to  assist  at  the 
mind-reading,  partly  from  a  lack  of  interest,  and  part- 
ly from  a  reluctance  to  dabble  in  such  things. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  uninterested  .in  what  is  now 
called  psychical  research  ?"  he  asked. 

"That  depends,"  said  Irene.  "If  I  were  a  physi- 
cian, I  should  like  to  watch  the  operation  of  the 
minds  of  'sensitives'  as  a  pathological  study.  But 


Their  Pilgrimage.  21 

the  experiments  I  have  seen  are  merely  exciting  and 
unsettling,  without  the  least  good  result,  with  a  haunt- 
ing notion  that  you  are  being  tricked  or  deluded.  It 
is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  try  and  know  my  own  mind, 
without  reading  the  minds  of  others." 

"  But  you  cannot  help  the  endeavor  to  read  the 
mind  of  a  person  with  whom  you  are  talking." 

"  Oh,  that  is  different.  That  is  really  an  encounter 
of  wits,  for  you  know  that  the  best  part  of  a  conver- 
sation is  the  things  not  said.  What  they  call  mind- 
reading  is  a  vulgar  business  compared  to  this.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Mr.  King  ?" 

What  Mr.  King  was  actually  thinking  was  that 
Irene's  eyes  were  the  most  unfathomable  blue  he  ever 
looked  into,  as  they  met  his  with  perfect  frankness, 
and  he  was  wondering  if  she  were  reading  his  present 
state  of  mind ;  but  what  he  said  was,  "  I  think  your 
sort  of  mind-reading  is  a  good  deal  more  interesting 
than  the  other,"  and  he  might  have  added,  dangerous. 
For  a  man  cannot  attempt  to  find  out  what  is  in  a 
woman's  heart  without  a  certain  disturbance  of  his 
own.  He  added,  "So  you  think  our  society  is  getting 
too  sensitive  and  nervous,  and  inclined  to  make  dan- 
gerous mental  excursions  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do  not  think  much  about  such  things," 
Irene  replied,  looking  out  of  the  window  into  the 
storm.  "I'm  content  with  a  very  simple  faith,  even 
if  it  is  called  ignorance." 

Mr.  King  was  thinking,  as  he  watched  the  clear, 
spirited  profile  of  the  girl  shown  against  the  white 
tumult  in  the  air,  that  he  should  like  to  belong  to  the 
party  of  ignorance  himself,  and  he  thought  so  long 


22  Their  Pilgrimage. 

about  it  that  the  subject  dropped,  and  the  conversa- 
tion fell  into  ordinary  channels,  and  Mrs.  Benson  ap- 
peared. She  thought  they  would  move  on  as  soon 
as  the  storm  was  over.  Mr.  King  himself  was  going 
south  in  the  morning,  if  travel  were  possible.  When 
he  said  good-bye,  Mrs.  Benson  expressed  the  pleasure 
his  acquaintance  had  given  them,  and  hoped  they 
should  see  him  in  Cyrusville.  Mr.  King  looked  to  see 
if  this  invitation  was  seconded  in  Irene's  eyes;  but 
they  made  no  sign,  although  she  gave  him  her  hand 
frankly,  and  wished  him  a  good  journey. 

The  next  morning  he  crossed  to  Norfolk,  was  trans- 
ported through  the  snow-covered  streets  on  a  sledge, 
and  took  his  seat  in  the  cars  for  the  most  monotonous 
ride  in  the  country,  that  down  the  coast-line. 

When  next  Stanhope  King  saw  Fortress  Monroe  it 
was  in  the  first  days  of  June.  The  summer  which  he 
had  left  in  the  interior  of  the  Hygeia  was  now  out- 
of-doors.  The  winter  birds  had  gone  north;  the  sum- 
mer birds  had  not  yet  come.  It  was  the  interregnum, 
for  the  Hygeia,  like  Venice,  has  two  seasons,  one  for 
the  inhabitants  of  colder  climes,  and  the  other  for 
natives  of  the  country.  No  spot,  thought  our  travel- 
ler, could  be  more  lovely.  Perhaps  certain  memories 
gave  it  a  charm,  not  well  defined,  but  still  gracious. 
If  the  house  had  been  empty,  which  it  was  far  from 
being,  it  would  still  have  been  peopled  for  him.  Were 
they  all  such  agreeable  people  whom  he  had  seen 
there  in  March,  or  has  one  girl  the  power  to  throw  a 
charm  over  a  whole  watering-place?  At  any  rate,  the 
place  was  full  of  delightful  repose.  There  was  move- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  23 

nient  enough  upon  the  water  to  satisfy  one's  lazy 
longing  for  life,  the  waves  lapped  soothingly  along 
the  shore,  and  the  broad  bay,  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
was  animated  with  boats,  which  all  had  a  holiday  air. 
Was  it  not  enough  to  come  down  to  breakfast  and 
sit  at  the  low,  broad  windows  and  watch  the  shifting 
panorama?  All  about  the  harbor  slanted  the  white 
sails;  at  intervals  a  steamer  was  landing  at  the  wharf 
or  backing  away  from  it;  on  the  wharf  itself  there 
was  always  a  little  bustle,  but  no  noise,  some  pretence 
of  business,  and  much  actual  transaction  in  the  way 
of  idle  attitudinizing,  the  colored  man  in  cast  -  off 
clothes,  and  the  colored  sister  in  sun-bonnet  or  tur- 
ban, lending  themselves  readily  to  the  picturesque  ; 
the  scene  changed  every  minute,  the  sail  of  a  tiny 
boat  was  hoisted  or  lowered  under  the  window,  a 
dashing  cutter  with  its  uniformed  crew  was  pulling 
off  to  the  German  man-of-war,  a  puffing  little  tug 
dragged  along  a  line  of  barges  in  the  distance,  and  on 
the  horizon  a  fleet  of  coasters  was  working  out  be- 
tween the  capes  to  sea.  In  the  open  window  came 
the  fresh  morning  breeze,  and  only  the  softened 
sounds  of  the  life  outside.  The  ladies  came  down  in 
cool  muslin  dresses,  and  added  the  needed  grace  to 
the  picture  as  they  sat  breakfasting  by  the  windows, 
their  figures  in  silhouette  against  the  blue. water. 

No  wonder  our  traveller  lingered  there  a  little! 
Humanity  called  him,  for  one  thing,  to  drive  often 
with  humanely  disposed  young  ladies  round  the  beau- 
tiful shore  curve  to  visit  the  schools  for  various  colors 
at  Hampton.  Then  there  was  the  evening  prome- 
nading on  the  broad  verandas  and  out  upon  the  min- 


A  DEFENDER  OF  HIS  COUNTRY. 

iature  pier,  or  at  sunset  by  the  water-batteries  of  the 
old  fort — such  a  peaceful  old  fortress  as  it  is.  All 
the  morning  there  were  "inspections"  to  be  attended, 
and  nowhere  could'  there  be  seen  a  more  agreeable 
mingling  of  war  and  love  than  the  spacious,  tree- 
planted  interior  of  the  fort  presented  on  such  occa- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  25 

sions.  The  shifting  figures  of  the  troops  on  parade; 
the  martial  and  daring  manoeuvres  of  the  regimental 
band;  the  groups  of  ladies  seated  on  benches  under 
the  trees,  attended  by  gallants  in  uniform,  momenta- 
rily off  duty  and  full  of  information,  and  by  gallants 
not  in  uniform  and  never  off  duty  and  desirous  to 
learn;  the  ancient  guns  with  French  arms  and  Eng- 
lish arms,  reminiscences  of  Yorktown,  on  one  of  which 
a  pretty  girl  was  apt  to  be  perched  in  the  act  of  be- 
ing photographed — all  this  was  enough  to  inspire  any 
man  to  be  a  countryman  and  a  lover.  It  is  beautiful 
to  see  how  fearless  the  gentle  sex  is  in  the  presence 
of  actual  war ;  the  prettiest  girls  occupied  the  front 
and  most  exposed  seats,  and  never  flinched  when  the 
determined  columns  marched  down  on  them  with 
drums  beating  and  colors  flying,  nor  showed  much 
relief  when  they  suddenly  wheeled  and  marched  to 
another  part  of  the  parade  in  search  of  glory.  And 
the  officers'  quarters  in  the  casemates — what  will  not 
women  endure  to  serve  their  country !  These  quar- 
ters are  mere  tunnels  under  a  dozen  feet  of  earth, 
with  a  door  on  the  parade  side  and  a  casement  win- 
dow on  the  outside — a  damp  cellar,  said  to  be  cool  in 
the  height  of  summer.  The  only  excuse  for  such 
quarters  is  that  the  women  and  children  will  be  com- 
paratively safe  in  case  the  fortress  is  bombarded." 

The  hotel  and  the  fortress  at  this  enchanting  sea- 
son, to  say  nothing  of  other  attractions,  with  laughing 
eyes  and  slender  figures,  might  well  have  detained 
Mr.  Stanhope  King,  but  he  had  determined  upon  a 
sort  of  roving  summer  among  the  resorts  of  fashion 
and  pleasure.  After  a  long  sojourn  abroad,  it  seemed 


THE   GOVERNMENT   WHARF,  FORTRESS   MONROE. 

becoming  that  he  should  know  something  of  the  float- 
ing life  of  his  own  country.  His  determination  may 
have  been  strengthened  by  the  confession  of  Mrs. 
Benson  that  her  family  were  intending  an  extensive 
summer  tour.  It  gives  a  zest  to  pleasure  to  have 
even  an  indefinite  object,  and  though  the  prospect  of 
meeting  Irene  again  was  not  definite,  it  was  neverthe- 
less alluring.  There  was  something  about  her,  he 
could  not  tell  what,  different  from  the  women  he  had 
met  in  France.  Indeed,  he  went  so  far  as  to  make  a 
general  formula  as  to  the  impression  the  American 
women  made  on  him  at  Fortress  Monroe — they  all 
appeared  to  be  innocent. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  OF  course  you  will  not  go  to  Cape  May  till  the 
season  opens.  You  might  as  well  go  to  a  race-track 
the  day  there  is  no  race." 

It  was  Mrs.  Cortlandt  who  was  speaking,  and  the 
remonstrance  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Stanhope  King, 
and  a  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Graham  Forbes,  who  had 
just  been  presented  to  her  as  an  artist,  in  the  railway 
station  at  Philadelphia,  that  comfortable  home  of  the 
tired  and  bewildered  traveller.  Mr.  Forbes,  with  his 
fresh  complexion,  closely  cropped  hair,  and  London 
clothes,  did  not  look  at  all  like  the  traditional  artist, 
although  the  sharp  eyes  of  Mrs.  Cortlandt  detected  a 
small  sketch-book  peeping  out  of  his  side  pocket. 


28  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  On  the  contrary,  that  is  why  we  go,"  said  Mr. 
King.  "I've  a  fancy  that  I  should  like  to  open  a 
season  once  myself." 

"Besides,"  added  Mr.  Forbes,  "  we  want  to  see  nat- 
ure unadorned.  You  know,  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  how  peo- 
ple sometimes  spoil  a  place." 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  answered  the  lady,  laughing,  "  that 
people  have  not  spoiled  you  two  and  you  need  a  rest. 
Where  else  do  you  go?w 

"  Well,  I  thought,"  replied  Mr.  King,  "  from  what  I 
heard,  that  Atlantic  City  might  appear  best  with  no- 
body there." 

"Oh,  there's  always  some  one  there.  You  know, 
it  is  a  winter  resort  now.  And,  by  the  way —  But 
there's  my  train,  and  the  young  ladies  are  beckoning 
to  me."  (Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  never  seen  anywhere 
without  a  party  of  young  ladies.)  "Yes,  the  Ben- 
sons  passed  through  Washington  the  other  day  from 
the  South,  and  spoke  of  going  to  Atlantic  City  to  tone 
up  a  little  before  the  season,  and  perhaps  you  know 
that  Mrs.  Benson  took  a  great  fancy  to  you,  Mr.  King. 
Good-bye,  au  revoir"  and  the  lady  was  gone  with  her 
bevy  of  girls,  struggling  in  the  stream  that  poured 
towards  one  of  the  wicket-gates. 

"Atlantic  City?  Why,  Stanhope,  you  don't  think 
of  going  there  also?" 

"  I  didn't  think  of  it,  but,  hang  it  all,  my  dear  fel- 
low, duty  is  duty.  There  are  some  places  yoii  must 
see  in  order  to  be  well  informed.  Atlantic  City  is 
an  important  place;  a  great  many  of  its  inhabitants 
spend  their  winters  in  Philadelphia." 

"  And  this  Mrs.  Benson  ?" 


Their  Pilgrimage.  29 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  down  there  to  see  Mrs.  Benson." 
Expectancy  was  the  word  when  our  travellers 
stepped  out  of  the  car  at  Cape  May  station.  Except 
for  some  people  who  seemed  to  have  business  there, 
they  were  the  only  passengers.  It  was  the  ninth  of 
June.  Everything  was  ready — the  sea,  the  sky,  the 
delicious  air,  the  long  line  of  gray-colored  coast,  the 
omnibuses,  the  array  of  hotel  tooters.  As  they  stood 
waiting  in  irresolution  a  grave  man  of  middle  age 
and  a  disinterested  manner  sauntered  up  to  the  trav- 
ellers, and  slipped  into  friendly  relations  with  them. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  incline  to  a  person  so  obliging 
and  well  stocked  with  local  information.  Yes,  there 
were  several  good  hotels  open.  It  didn't  make  much 
difference  ;  there  was  one  near  at  hand,  not  preten- 
tious, but  probably  as  comfortable  as  any.  People 
liked  the  table;  last  summer  used  to  come  there  from 
other  hotels  to  get  a  meal.  He  was  going  that  way, 
and  would  walk  along  with  them.  He  did,  and  con- 
versed most  interestingly  on  the  way.  Our  travellers 
felicitated  themselves  upon  falling  into  such  good 
hands,  but  when  they  reached  the  hotel  designated  it 
had  such  a  gloomy  and  in  fact  boarding-house  air 
that  th^y  hesitated,  and  thought  they  would  like  to 
walk  on  a  little  farther  and  see  the  town  before  set- 
tling. And  their  friend  appeared  to  feel  rather  grieved 
about  it,  not  for  himself,  but  for  them.  He  had, 
moreover,  the  expression  of  a  fisherman  who  has  lost 
a  fish  after  he  supposed'  it  was  securely  hooked.  But 
our  young  friends  had  been  angled  for  in  a  good 
many  waters,  and  they  told  the  landlord,  for  it  was 
the  landlord,  that  while  they  had  no  doubt  his  was 


30  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  best  hotel  in  the  place,  they  would  like  to  look  at 
some  not  so  good.  The  one  that  attracted  them, 
though  they  could  not  see  in  what  the  attraction  lay, 
was  a  tall  building  gay  with  fresh  paint  in  many 
colors,  some  pretty  window  balconies,  and  a  portico 
supported  by  high  striped  columns  that  rose  to  the 
fourth  story.  They  were  fond  of  color,  and  were 
taken  by  six  little  geraniums  planted  in  a  circle  amid 
the  sand  in  front  of  the  house,  which  were  waiting 
for  the  season  to  open  before  they  began  to  grow. 
With  hesitation  they  stepped  upon  the  newly  var- 
nished piazza  and  the  newly  varnished  office  floor, 
for  every  step  left  a  footprint.  The  chairs,  disposed 
in  a  long  line  on  the  piazza,  waiting  for  guests,  were 
also  varnished,  as  the  artist  discovered  when  he  sat 
in  one  of  them  and  was  held  fast.  It  was  all  fresh 
and  delightful.  The  landlord  and  the  clerks  had  smiles 
as  wide  as  the  open  doors;  the  waiters  exhibited  in 
their  eagerness  a  good  imitation  of  unselfish  service. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  be  alone  in  the  house,  and 
to  be  the  first-fruits  of  such  great  expectations.  The 
first  man  of  the  season  is  in  such  a  different  position 
from  the  last.  He  is  like  the  King  of  Bavaria  alone 
ii\  his  royal  theatre.  The  ushers  give  him  the  best 
seat  in  the  house,  he  hears  the  tuning  of  the  instru- 
ments, the  curtain  is  about  to  rise,  and  all  for  him. 
It  is  a  very  cheerful  desolation,  for  it  has  a  future, 
and  everything  quivers  with  the  expectation  of  life 
and  gayety.  Whereas  the  last  man  is  like  o,ne  who 
stumbles  out  among  the  empty  benches  when  the  cur- 
tain has  fallen  and  the  play  is  done.  Nothing  is  so 
melancholy  as  the  shabbiness  of  a  watering-place  at 


Their  Pilgrimage.  31 

the  end  of  the  season,  where  is  left  only  the  echo  of 
past  gayety,  the  last  guests  are  scurrying  away  like 
leaves  before  the  cold,  rising  wind,  the  varnish  has 
worn  off,  shutters  are  put  up,  booths  are  dismantled, 
the  shows  are  packing  up  their  tawdry  ornaments, 
and  the  autumn  leaves  collect  in  the  corners  of  the 
gaunt  buildings. 

Could  this  be  the  Cape  May  about  which  hung  so 
many  traditions  of  summer  romance?  Where  were 
those  crowds  of  Southerners,  with  slaves  and  chariots, 
and  the  haughtiness  of  a  caste  civilization,  and  the 
belles  from  Baltimore  and  Philadelphia  and  Charles- 
ton and  Richmond,  whose  smiles  turned  the  heads  of 
the  last  generation  ?  Had  that  gay  society  danced 
itself  off  into  the  sea,  and  left  not  even  a  phantom  of 
itself  behind?  As  he  sat  upon  the  veranda,  King 
could  not  rid  himself  of  the  impression  that  this  must 
be  a  mocking  dream,  this  appearance  of  emptiness 
and  solitude.  Why,  yes,  he  was  certainly  in  a  delu- 
sion, at  least  in  a  reverie.  The  place  was  alive.  An 
omnibus  drove  to  the  door  (though  no  sound  of  wheels 
was  heard);  the  waiters  rushed  out,  a  fat  man  de- 
scended, a  little  girl  was  lifted  down,  a  pretty  woman 
jumped  from  the  steps  with  that  little  extra  bound  on 
the  ground  which  all  women  confessedly  under  forty 
always  give  when  they  alight  from  a  vehicle,  a  large 
woman  lowered  herself  cautiously  out,  with  an  anx- 
ious look,  and  a  file  of  men  stooped  and  emerged, 
poking  their  umbrellas  and  canes  in  each  other's 
backs.  Mr.  King  plainly  saw  the  whole  party  hurry 
into  the  office  and  register  their  names,  and  saw  the 
clerk  repeatedly  touch  a  bell  and  throw  back  his  head 


32  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  extend  his  hand  to  a  servant.  Curious  to  see 
who  the  arrivals  were,  he  went  to  the  register.  No 
names  were  written  there.  But  there  were  other  car- 
riages at  the  door,  there  was  a  pile  of  trunks  on  the 
veranda,  which  he  nearly  stumbled  over,  although  his 
foot  struck  nothing,  and  the  chairs  were  full,  and  peo- 
ple were  strolling  up  and  down  the  piazza.  He  noticed 
particularly  one  couple  promenading — a  slender  bru- 
nette, with  a  brilliant  complexion;  large  dark  eyes 
that  made  constant  play— could  it  be  the  belle  of  Ma- 
con? — and  a  gentleman  of  thirty -five,  in  black  frock- 
coat,  unbuttoned,  with  a  wide  -  brimmed  soft  hat — 
clothes  not  quite  the  latest  style — who  had  a  good 
deal  of  manner,  and  walked  apart  from  the  young 
lady,  bending  towards  her  with  an  air  of  devotion. 
Mr.  King  stood  one  side  and  watched  the  endless  pro- 
cession up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  strollers,  the 
mincers,  the  languid,  the  nervous  steppers;  noted  the 
eye-shots,  the  flashing  or  the  languishing  look  that 
kills,  and  never  can  be  called  to  account  for  the  mis- 
chief it  does;  but  not  a  sound  did  he  hear  of  the  rep- 
artee and  the  laughter.  The  place  certainly  was 
thronged.  The  avenue  in  front  was  crowded  with 
vehicles  of  all  sorts;  there  were  groups  strolling  on 
the  broad  beach — children  with  their  tiny  pails  and 
shovels  digging  pits  close  to  the  advancing  tide,  nurs- 
ery-maids in  fast  colors,  boys  in  knickerbockers  racing 
on  the  beach,  people  lying  on  the  sand,  resolute  walk- 
ers, whose  figures  loomed  tall  in  the  evening  light,  do- 
ing their  constitutional.  People  were  passing  to  and 
fro  on  the  long  iron  pier  that  spider-legged  itself  out 
into  the  sea;  the  two  rooms  midway  were  filled  with 


34  Their  Pilgrimage. 

sitters  taking  the  evening  breeze;  and  the  large  ball 
and  music  room  at  the  end,  with  its  spacious  outside 
promenade  —  yes,  there  were  dancers  there,  and  the 
band  was  playing.  Mr.  King  could  see  the  fiddlers 
draw  their  bows,  and  the  corneters  lift  up  their  horns 
and  get  red  in  the  face,  and  the  lean  man  slide  his 
trombone,  and  the  drummer  flourish  his  sticks,  but  not 
a  note  of  musjc  reached  him.  It  might  have  been  a 
performance  of  ghosts  for  all  the  effect  at  this  dis- 
tance. Mr.  King  reniarked  upon  this  dumb-show  to  a 
gentleman  in  a  blue  coat  and  white  vest  and  gray  hat, 
leaning  against  a  column  near  him.  The  gentleman 
made  no  response.  It  was  most  singular.  Mr.  King 
stepped  back  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  some  children 
racing  down  the  piazza,  and,  half  stumbling,  sat  down 
in  the  lap  of  a  dowager — no,  not  quite ;  the  chair  was 
empty,  and  he  sat  down  in  the  fresh  varnish,  to  which 
his  clothes  stuck  fast.  Was  this  a  delusion?  No. 
The  tables  were  filled  in  the  dining-room,  the  waiters 
were  scurrying  about,  there  were  ladies  on  the  balconies 
looking  dreamily  down  upon  the  animated  scene  be- 
low; all  the  movements  of  gayety  and  hilarity  in  the 
height  of  a  season.  Mr.  King  approached  a  group 
who  were  standing  waiting  for  a  carriage,  but  they 
did  not  see  him,  and  did  not  respond  to  his  trumped- 
up  question  about  the  next  train.  .Were  these,  then, 
shadows,  or  was  he  a  spirit  himself?  Were  these 
empty  omnibuses  and  carriages  that  discharged  ghost- 
ly passengers  ?  And  all  this  promenading  and  flirting 
and  languishing  and  love-making,  would  it  come  to 
nothing  —  nothing  more  than  usual?  There  was  a 
charm  about  it  all — the  movement,  the  color,  the  gray 


Their  Pilgrimage.  35 

sand,  and  the  rosy  blush  on  the  sea — a  lovely  place, 
an  enchanted  place.  Were  these  throngs  the  guests 
that  were  to  come,  or  those  that  had  been  here  in  other 
seasons  ?  Why  could  not  the  former  "  materialize  " 
as  well  as  the  latter  ?  Is  it  not  as  easy  to  make  noth- 
ing out  of  what  never  yet  existed  as  out  of  "what  has 
ceased  to  exist  ?  The  landlord,  by  faith,  sees  all  this 
array  which  is  prefigured  so  strangely  to  Mr.  King; 
and  his  comely  young  wife  sees  it  and  is  ready  for  it; 
and  the  fat  son  at  the  supper  table — a  living  example 
of  the  good  eating  to  be  had  here — is  serene,  and  has 
the  air  of  being  polite  and  knowing  to  a  houseful. 
This  scrap  of  a  child,  with  the  aplomb  of  a  man  of 
fifty,  wise  beyond  his  fatness,  imparts  information  to 
the  travellers  about  the  wine,  speaks  to  the  waiter 
with  quiet  authority,  and  makes  these  mature  men  feel 
like  boys  before  the  gravity  of  our  perfect  flower  of 
American  youth  who  has  known  no  childhood.  This 
boy  at  least  is  no  phantom;  the  landlord  is  real,  and 
the  waiters,  and  the  food  they  bring. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  King  to  his  friend,  "  that  we 
are  opening  the  season.  Did  you  see  anything  out- 
doors?" 

"  Yes;  a  horseshoe-crab  about  a  mile  below  here  on 
the  smooth  sand,  with  a  long  dotted  trail  behind  him, 
a  couple  of  girls  in  a  pony-cart  who  nearly  drove  over 
me,  and  a  tall  young  lady  with  a  red  parasol,  accom- 
panied by  a  big  black-and-white  dog,  walking  rapidly, 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  sea,  towards  the  sunset.  It's 
just  lovely,  the  silvery  sweep  of  coast  in  this  light." 

"  It  seems  a  refined  sort  of  place  in  its  outlines,  and 
quietly  respectable.  They  tell  me  here  that  they  don't 


36  Their  Pilgrimage. 

want  the  excursion  crowds  that  overrun  Atlantic  City, 
but  an  Atlantic  City  man,  whom  I  met  at  the  pier, 
said  that  Cape  May  used  to  be  the  boss,  but  that  At- 
lantic City  had  got  the  bulge  on  it  now — had  thou- 
sands to  the  hundreds  here.  To  get  the  bulge  seems 
a  desirable  thing  in  America,  and  I  think  we'd  better 
see  what  a  place  is  like  that  is  popular,  whether  fash- 
ion recognizes  it  or  not." 

The  place  lost  nothing  in  the  morning  light,  and  it 
was  a  sparkling  morning  with  a  fresh  breeze,  Nature, 
with  its  love  of  simple,  sweeping  lines,  and  its  feeling 
for  atmospheric  effect,  has  done  everything  for  the 
place,  and  bad  taste  has  not  quite  spoiled  it.  There 
is  a  sloping,  shallow  beach,  very  broad,  of  fine,  hard 
sand,  excellent  for  driving  or  for  walking,  extending 
unbroken  three  miles  down  to  Cape  May  Point,  which 
has  hotels  and  cottages  of  its  own,  and  life-saving 
and  signal  stations.  Off  to  the  west  from  this  point 
is  the  long  sand  line  to  Cape  Henlopen,  fourteen  miles 
away,  and  the  Delaware  shore.  At  Cape  May  Point 
there  is  a  little  village  of  painted  wood  houses,  mostly 
cottages  to  let,  and  a  permanent  population  of  a  few 
hundred  inhabitants.  From  the  pier  one  sees  a  mile 
and  a  half  of  hotels  and  cottages,  fronting  south,  all 
flaming,  tasteless,  carpenter's  architecture,  gay  with 
paint.  The  sea  expanse  is  magnificent,  and  the  sweep 
of  beach  is  fortunately  unencumbered,  and  vulgarized 
by  no  bath-houses  or  show  shanties.  The  bath-houses 
are  in  front  of  the  hotels  and  in  their  enclosures;  then 
come  the  broad  drive,  and  the  sand  beach,  and  the 
sea.  The  line  is  broken  below  by  the  lighthouse  and 
a  point  of  land,  whereon  stands  the  elephant.  This 


Their  Pilgrimage.  37 

elephant  is  not  indigenous,  and  he  stands  alone  in  the 
sand,  a  wooden  sham  without  an  explanation.  Why 
the  hotel-keeper's  mind  along  the  coast  regards  this 
grotesque  structure  as  a  summer  attraction  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see.  But  when  one  resort  had  him,  he  became 
a  necessity  everywhere.  The  travellers  walked  down 
to  this  monster,  climbed  the  stairs  in  one  of  his  legs, 
explored  the  rooms,  looked  out  from  the  saddle,  and 
pondered  on  the  problem.  This  beast  was  unfinished 
within  and  unpainted  without,  and  already  falling  into 
decay.  An  elephant  on  the  desert,  fronting  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean,  had,  after  all,  a  picturesque  aspect,  and  all 
the  more  so  because  he  was  a  deserted  ruin. 

The  elephant  was,  however,  no  emptier  than  the 
cottages  about  which  our  friends  strolled.  But  the 
cottages  were  all  ready,  the  rows  of  new  chairs  stood 
on  the  fresh  piazzas,  the  windows  were  invitingly 
open,  the  pathetic  little  patches  of  flowers  in  front 
tried  hard  to  look  festive  in  the  dry  sands,  and  the 
stout  landladies  in  their  rocking-chairs  calmly  knitted 
and  endeavored  to  appear  as  if  they  expected  nobody, 
but  had  almost  a  houseful. 

Yes,  the  place  was  undeniably  attractive.  The  sea 
had  the  blue  of  Nice  ;  why  must  we  always  go  to  the 
Mediterranean  for  an  aqua  marina,  for  poetic  lines, 
for  delicate  shades  ?  What  charming  gradations  had 
this  picture — gray  sand,  blue  waves,  a  line  of  white 
sails  against  the  pale  blue  sky !  By  the  pier  railing 
is  a  bevy  of  little  girls  grouped  about  an  ancient  col- 
ored man,  the  very  ideal  old  Uncle  Ned,  in  ragged, 
baggy,  and  disreputable  clothes,  lazy  good-nature  ooz- 
ing out  of  every  pore  of  him,  kneeling  by  a  telescope 


38  Their  Pilgrimage. 

pointed  to  a  bunch  of  white  sails  on  the  horizon;  a 
dainty  little  maiden,  in  a  stiff  white  skirt  and  golden 
hair,  leans  against  him  and  tiptoes  up  to  the  object- 
glass,  shutting  first  one  eye  and  then  the  other,  and 
making  nothing  out  of  it  all.  "  Why,  ov  co'se  you 
can't  see  nuffin,  honey,"  said  Uncle  Ned,  taking  a  peep, 
"  wid  the  'scope  p'inted  up  in  the  sky." 

In  order  to  pass  from  Cape  May  to  Atlantic  City 
one  takes  a  long  circuit  by  rail  through  the  Jersey 
sands.  Jersey  is  a  very  prolific  state,  but  the  railway 
traveller  by  this  route  is  excellently  prepared  for  At- 
lantic City,  for  he  sees  little  but  sand,  stunted  pines, 
scrub  oaks,  small  frame  houses,  sometimes  trying  to 
hide  in  the  clumps  of  scrub  oaks,  and  the  villages  are 
just  collections  of  the  same  small  frame  houses  hope- 
lessly decorated  with  scroll-work  and  obtrusively 
painted,  standing  in  lines  on  sandy  streets,  adorned 
with  lean  shade-trees.  The  handsome  Jersey  people 
were  not  travelling  that  day — the  two  friends  had  a 
theory  about  the  relation  of  a  sandy  soil  to  female 
beauty — and  when  the  artist  got  out  his  pencil  to 
catch  the  types  of  the  country,  he  was  well  rewarded. 
There  were  the  fat  old  women  in  holiday  market  cos- 
tumes, strong-featured,  positive,  who  shook  their  heads 
at  each  other  and  nodded  violently  and  incessantly, 
and  all  talked  at  once;  the  old  men  in  rusty  suits,  thin, 
with  a  deprecatory  manner,  as  if  they  had  heard  that 
clatter  for  fifty  years,  and  perky,  sharp-faced  girls  in 
vegetable  hats,  all  long-nosed  and  thin-lipped.  And 
though  the  day  was  cool,  mosquitoes  had  the  bad  taste 
to  invade  the  train.  At  the  junction,  a  small  collec- 
tion of  wooden  shanties,  where  the  travellers  waited 


UNCLE  NED  ADJUSTING  THE  TELESCOPE. 


4:0  Their  Pilgrimage. 

an  hour,  they  heard  much  of  the  glories  of  Atlantic 
City  from  the  postmistress,  who  was  waiting  for  an 
excursion  some  time  to  go  there  (the  passion  for  ex- 
cursions seems  to  be  a  growing  one),  and  they  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  cow  tied  in  the  room  next  the 
ticket-office,  probably  also  waiting  for  a  passage  to  the 
city  by  the  sea. 

And  a  city  it  is.  If  many  houses,  endless  avenues, 
sand,  paint,  make  a  city,  the  artist  confessed  that  this 
was  one.  Everything  is  on  a  large  scale.  It  covers 
a  large  territory,  the  streets  run  at  right  angles,  the 
avenues  to  the  ocean  take  the  names  of  the  states.  If 
the  town  had  been  made  to  order  and  sawed  out  by 
one  man,  it  could  not  be  more  beautifully  regular  and 
more  satisfactorily  monotonous.  There  is  nothing 
about  it  to  give  the  most  commonplace  mind  in  the 
world  a  throb  of  disturbance.  The  hotels,  the  cheap 
shops,  the  cottages,  are  all  of  wood,  and,  with  three  or 
four  exceptions  in  the  thousands,  they  are  all  practi- 
cally alike,  all  ornamented  with  scroll-work,  as  if  cut 
out  by  the  jig-saw,  all  vividly  painted,  all  appealing 
to  a  primitive  taste  just  awakening  to  the  appreciation 
of  the  gaudy  chromo  and  the  illuminated  and  consol- 
ing household  motto.  Most  of  the  hotels  are  in  the 
town,  at  considerable  distance  from  the  ocean,  and  the 
majestic  old  sea,  which  can  be  monotonous  but  never 
vulgar,  is  barricaded  from  the  town  by  five  or  six 
miles  of  stark-naked  plank  walk,  rows  on  rows  of  bath 
closets,  leagues  of  flimsy  carpentry-work,  in  the  way 
of  cheap-John  shops,  tin-type  booths,  peep-shows,  go- 
rounds,  shooting-galleries,  pop-beer  and  cigar  shops, 
restaurants,  barber  shops,  photograph  galleries,  sum- 


JERSEY    TYPES. 


4:2  Their  Pilgrimage. 

mer  theatres.  Sometimes  the  plank  walk  runs  for  a 
mile  or  two,  on  its  piles,  between  rows  of  these  shops 
and  booths,  and  again  it  drops  off  down  by  the  waves. 
Here  and  there  is  a  gayly-painted  wooden  canopy  by 
the  shore,  with  chairs  where  idlers  can  sit  and  watch 
the  frolicking  in  the  water,  or  a  space  railed  off,  where 
the  select  of  the  hotels  lie  or  lounge  in  the  sand  under 
red  umbrellas.  The  calculating  mind  wonders  how 
many  million  feet  of  lumber  there  are  in  this  unpict- 
uresque  barricade,  and  what  gigantic  forests  have 
fallen  to  make  this  timber  front  to  the  sea.  But  there 
is  one  thing  man  cannot  do.  He  has  made  this  show 
to  suit  himself,  he  has  pushed  out  several  iron  piers 
into  the  sea,  and  erected,  of  course,  a  skating  rink  on 
the  end  of  one  of  them.  But  the  sea  itself,  untamed, 
restless,  shining,  dancing,  raging,  rolls  in  from  the 
southward,  tossing  the  white  sails  on  its  vast  expanse, 
green,  blue,  leaden,  white-capped,  many-colored,  never 
two  minutes  the  same,  sounding  with  its  eternal  voice 
I  know  not  what  rebuke  to  man. 

When  Mr.  King  wrote  his  and  his  friend's  name  in 
the  book  at  the  Mansion  House,  he  had  the  curiosity 
to  turn  over  the  leaves,  and  it  was  not  with  much  sur- 
prise that  he  read  there  the  names  of  A.  J.  Benson, 
wife,  and  daughter,  Cyrusville,  Ohio. 

"  Oh,  I  see  !"  said  the  artist;  "  you  came  down  here 
to  see  Mr.  Benson!" 

That  gentleman  was  presently  discovered  tilted 
back  in  a  chair  on  the  piazza,  gazing  vacantly  into  the 
vacant  street  with  that  air  of  endurance  that  fathers 
of  families  put  on  at  such  resorts.  But  he  brightened 
up  when  Mr.  King  made  himself  known. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  43 

"  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  And  my  wife  and 
daughter  will  be.  I  was  saying  to  my  wife  yester- 
day that  I  couldn't  stand  this  sort  of  thing  much 
longer." 

"  You  don't  find  it  lively  ?" 

"  Well,  the  livelier  it  is  the  less  I  shall  like  it,  I 
reckon.  The  town  is  well  enough.  It's  one  of  the 
smartest  places  on  the  coast.  I  should  like  to  have 
owned  the  ground  and  sold  out  and  retired.  This 
sand  is  all  gold.  They  say  they  sell  the  lots  by  the 
bushel  and  count  every  sand.  You  can  see  what  it  is, 
boards  and»paint  and  sand.  Fine  houses  too;  miles 
of  them." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  say  there's  plenty  to  do.  You  can  ride 
around  in  the  sand;  you  can  wade  in  it  if  you  want 
to,  and  go  down  to  the  beach  and  walk  up  and  down 
the  plank  walk — walk  up  and  down — walk  up  and 
down.  They  like  it.  You  can't  bathe  yet  without 
getting  pneumonia.  They  have  gone  there  now. 
Irene  goes  because  she  says  she  can't  stand  the  gay- 
ety  of  the  parlor." 

From  the  parlor  came  the  sound  of  music.  A  young 
girl  who  had  the  air  of  not  being  afraid  of  a  public 
parlor  was  drumming  out  waltzes  on  the  piano,  more 
for  the  entertainment  of  herself  than  of  the  half-dozen 
ladies  who  yawned  over  their  worsted-work.  As  she 
brought  her  piece  to  an  end  with  a  bang,  a  pretty, 
sentimental  miss  with  a  novel  in  her  hand,  who  may 
not  have  seen  Mr.  King  looking  in  at  the  door,  ran 
over  to  the  player  and  gave  her  a  hug.  "  That's  beau- 
tiful! that's  perfectly  lovely,  Mamie  !"  "This,"  said 


44:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  player,  taking  up  another  sheet,  "has  not  been 
played  much  in  New  York."  Probably  not,  in  that 
style,  thought  Mr.  King,  as  the  girl  clattered  through  it. 
There  was  no  lack  of  people  on  the  promenade, 
tramping  the  boards,  or  hanging  about  the  booths 
where  the  carpenters  and  painters  were  at  work,  and 
the  shop  men  and  women  were  unpacking  the  corals 
and  the  sea-shells,  and  the  cheap  jewelry,  and  the  Swiss 
wood-carving,  the  toys,  the  tinsel  brooches  and  agate 
ornaments,  and  arranging  the  soda  fountains,  and  put- 
ting up  the  shelves  for  the  permanent  pie.  The  sort 
of  preparation  going  on  indicated  the  kind  of  crowd 
expected.  If  everything  had  a  cheap  and  vulgar  look, 
our  wandering  critics  remembered  that  it  is  never  fair 
to  look  behind  the  scenes  of  a  show,  and  that  things 
would  wear  a  braver  appearance  by  and  by.  And  if 
the  women  on  the  promenade  were  homely  and  ill- 
dressed,  even  the  bonnes  in  unpicturesque  costumes, 
and  all  the  men  were  slouchy  and  stolid,  how  could 
any  one  tell  what  an  effect  of  gayety  and  enjoyment 
there  might  be  when  there  were  thousands  of  such 
people,  and  the  sea  was  full  of  bathers,  and  the  flags 
were  flying,  and  the  bands  were  tooting,  and  all  the 
theatres  were  opened,  and  acrobats  and  spangled  wom- 
en and  painted  red-men  offered  those  attractions  which, 
like  government,  are  for  the  good  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber ?  What  will  you  have  ?  Shall  vulgarity  be  left 
just  vulgar,  and  have  no  apotheosis  and  glorification  ? 
This  is  very  fine  of  its  kind,  and  a  resort  for  the  mill- 
ion. The  million  come  here  to  enjoy  themselves. 
Would  you  have  an  art-gallery  here,  and  high-priced 
New  York  and  Paris  shops  lining  the  way  ? 


46  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Look  at  the  town,"  exclaimed  the  artist,  "  and  see 
what  money  can  do,  and  satisfy  the  average  taste  with- 
out the  least  aid  from  art.  It's  just  wonderful.  I've 
tramped  round  the  place,  and,  taking  out  a  cottage  or 
two,  there  isn't  a  picturesque  or  pleasing  view  any- 
where. I  tell  you  people  know  what  they  want,  and 
enjoy  it  when  they  get  it." 

"  You  needn't  get  excited  about  it,"  said  Mr.  King. 
"Nobody  said  it  wasn't  commonplace,  and  glaringly 
vulgar  if  you  like,  and  if  you  like  to  consider  it  repre- 
sentative of  a  certain  stage  in  national  culture,  I  hope 
it  is  not  necessary  to  remind  you  that  the  United 
States  can  beat  any  other  people  in  any  direction  they 
choose  to  expand  themselves.  You'll  own  it  when 
you've  seen  watering-places  enough." 

After  this  defence  of  the  place,  Mr.  King  owned  it 
might  be  difficult  for  Mr.  Forbes  to  find  anything 
picturesque  to  sketch.  What  figures,  to  be  sure!  As 
if  people  were  obliged  to  be  shapely  or  picturesque 
for  the  sake  of  a  wandering  artist!  "I  could  do  a 
tree,"  growled  Mr.  Forbes,  "or  a  pile  of  boards;  but 
these  shanties!" 

When  they  were  well  away  from  the  booths  and 
bath-houses,  Mr.  King  saw  in  the  distance  two  ladies. 
There  was  no  mistaking  one  of  them — the  easy  car- 
riage, the  grace  of  movement.  No  such  figure  had 
been  afield  all  day.  The  artist  was  quick  to  see  that. 
Presently  they  came  up  with  them,  and  found  them 
seated  on  a  bench,  looking  off  upon  Brigantine  Island, 
a  low  sand  dune  with  some  houses  and  a  few  trees 
against  the  sky,  the  most  pleasing  object  in  view. 

Mrs.  Benson  did  not  conceal  the  pleasure  she  felt  in 


Their  Pilgrimage.  47 

seeing  Mr.  King  again,  and  was  delighted  to  know  his 
friend;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  Miss  Irene  gave  him  a 
very  cordial  greeting. 

"  I'm  'most  tired  to  death,"  said  Mrs.  Benson,  when 
they  were  all  seated.  "  But  this  air  does  me  good. 
Don't  you  like  Atlantic  City?" 

"  I  like  it  better  than  I  did  at  first."  If  the  remark 
was  intended  for  Irene,  she  paid  no  attention  to  it,  be- 
ing absorbed  in  explaining  to  Mr.  Forbes  why  she  pre- 
ferred the  deserted  end  of  the  promenade. 

"  It's  a  place  that  grows  on  you.  I  guess  it's  grown 
the  wrong  way  on  Irene  and  father;  but  I  like  the  air 
— after  the  South.  They  say  we  ought  to  see  it  in 
August,  when  all  Philadelphia  is  here." 

"  I  should  think  it  might  be  very  lively." 

"Yes;  but  the  promiscuous  bathing.  I  don't  think 
I  should  like  that.  We  are  not  brought  up  to  that 
sort  of  thing  in  Ohio." 

"  No?     Ohio  is  more  like  France,  I  suppose?" 

"Like  France!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  looking  at 
him  in  amazement — "like  France!  Why,  France  is 
the  wickedest  place  in  the  world." 

"  No  doubt  it  is,  Mrs.  Benson.  But  at  the  sea  re- 
sorts the  sexes  bathe  separately." 

"  Well,  now!     I  suppose  they  have  to  there." 

"Yes;  the  older  nations  grow,  the  more  self-con- 
scious they  become." 

"I  don't  believe,  for  all  you  say,  Mr.  King,  the 
French  have  any  more  conscience  than  we  have." 

"  Nor  do  I,  Mrs.  Benson.  I  was  only  trying  to  say 
that  they  pay  more  attention  to  appearances." 

"  Well,  I  was  brought  up  to  think  it's  one  thing  to 


48  Their  Pilgrimage. 

appear,  and  another  thing  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Benson,  as 
dismissing  the  subject.  "So  your  friend's  an  artist? 
Does  he  paint?  Does  he  take  portraits?  There  was 
an  artist  at  Cyrusville  last  winter  who  painted  por- 
traits, but  Irene  wouldn't  let  him  do  hers.  I'm  glad 
we've  met  Mr.  Forbes.  I've  always  wanted  to  have — " 

"  Oh,  mother,"  exclaimed  Irene,  who  always  ap- 
peared to  keep  one  ear  for  her  mother's  conversation, 
"  I  was  just  saying  to  Mr.  Forbes  that  he  ought  to 
see  the  art  exhibitions  down  at  the  other  end  of  the 
promenade,  and  the  pictures  of  the  people  who  come 
here  in  August.  Are  you  rested?" 

The  party  moved  along,  and  Mr.  King,  by  a  move- 
ment that  seemed  to  him  more  natural  than  it  did  to 
Mr.  Forbes,  walked  with  Irene,  and  the  two  fell  to  talk- 
ing about  the  last  spring's  trip  in  the  South. 

"  Yes,  we  enjoyed  the  exhibition,  but  I  am  not  sure 
but  I  should  have  enjoyed  New  Orleans  more  without 
the  exhibition.  That  took  so  much  time.  There  is 
nothing  so  wearisome  as  an  exhibition.  But  New  Or- 
leans was  charming.  I  don't  know  why,  for  it's  the 
flattest,  dirtiest,  dampest  city  in  the  world;  but  it  is 
charming.  Perhaps  it's  the  people,  or  the  Frenchiriess 
of  it,  or  the  tumble-down,  picturesque  old  Creole  quar- 
ter, or  the  roses;  I  didn't  suppose  there  were  in  the 
world  so  many  roses;  the  town  was  just  wreathed  and 
smothered  with  them.  And  you  did  not  see  it?" 

"No;  I  have  been  to  exhibitions,  and  I  thought  I 
should  prefer  to  take  New  Orleans  by  itself  some  other 
time.  You  found  the  people  hospitable?" 

"Well,  they  were  not  simply  hospitable;  they  were 
that,  to  be  sure,  for  father  had  letters  to  some  of  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  49 

leading  men;  but  it  was  the  general  air  of  friendliness 
and  good-nature  everywhere,  of  agreeableness — it  went 
along  with  the  roses  and  the  easy-going  life.  You 
didn't  feel  all  the  time  on  a  strain.  I  don't  suppose 
they  are  any  better  than  our  people,  and  I've  no  doubt 
I  should  miss  a  good  deal  there  after  a  while — a  cer- 
tain tonic  and  purpose  in  life.  But,  do  you  know,  it 
is  pleasant  sometimes  to  be  with  people  who  haven't 
so  many  corners  as  our  people  have.  But  you  went 
south  from  Fortress  Monroe?" 

"Yes;  I  went  to  Florida." 

"Oh,  that  must  be  a  delightful  country!" 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  delightful  land,  or  will  be  when 
it  is  finished.  It  needs  advertising  now.  It  needs 
somebody  to  call  attention  to  it.  The  modest  North- 
erners who  have  got  hold  of  it,  and  staked  it  all  out 
into  city  lots,  seem  to  want  to  keep  it  all  to  them- 
selves." 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  finished  '  ?" 

"  Why,  the  state  is  big  enough,  and  a  considerable 
portion  of  it  has  a  good  foundation.  What  it  wants 
is  building  up.  There's  plenty  of  water  and  sand,  and 
palmetto  roots  and  palmetto  trees,  and  swamps,  and  a 
perfectly  wonderful  vegetation  of  vines  and  plants  and 
flowers.  What  it  needs  is  land — at  least  what  the 
Yankees  call  land.  But  it  is  coming  on.  A  good  deal 
of  the  state  below  Jacksonville  is  already  ten  to  fif- 
teen feet  above  the  ocean." 

"  But  it's  such  a  place  for  invalids!" 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  place  for  invalids.  There  are  two  kinds 
of  people  there — invalids  and  speculators.  Thousands 
of  people  in  the  bleak  North,  and  especially  in  the 
4 


50  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Northwest,  cannot  live  in  the  winter  anywhere  else 
than  in  Florida.  It's  a  great  blessing  to  this  country 
to  have  such  a  sanitarium.  As  I  said,  all  it  needs  is 
building  up,  and  then  it  wouldn't  be  so  monotonous 
and  malarious." 

"  But  I  had  such  a  different  idea  of  it!" 

"  Well,  your  idea  is  probably  right.  You  cannot 
do  justice  to  a  place  by  describing  it  literally.  Most 
people  are  fascinated  by  Florida:  the  fact  is  that  any- 
thing is  preferable  to  our  Northern  climate  from  Feb- 
ruary to  May." 

"And  you  didn't  buy  an  orange  plantation,  or  a 
town  ?" 

"No;  I  was  discouraged.  Almost  any  one  can  have 
a  town  who  will  take  a  boat  and  go  off  somewhere 
with  a  surveyor,  and  make  a  map." 

The  truth  is — the  present  writer  had  it  from  Major 
Blifill,  who  runs  a  little  steamboat  upon  one  of  the  in- 
land creeks  where  the  alligator  is  still  numerous  enough 
to  be  an  entertainment — that  Mr.  King  was  no  doubt 
malarious  himself  when  he  sailed  over  Florida.  Bliiill 
says  he  offended  a  whole  boatful  one  day  when  they 

«7  «7  */ 

were  sailing  up  the  St.  John's.  Probably  he  was  tired 
of  water,  and  swamp  and  water,  and  scraggy  trees  and 
water.  The  captain  was  on  the  bow,  expatiating  to  a 
crowd  of  listeners  on  the  fertility  of  the  soil  and  the 
salubrity  of  the  climate.  He  had  himself  bought  a 
piece  of  ground  away  up  there  somewhere  for  two 
hundred  dollars,  cleared  it  up,  and  put  in  orange-trees, 
and  thousands  wouldn't  buy  it  now.  And  Mr.  King, 
who  listened  attentively,  finally  joined  in  with  the 
questioners,  and  said,  "  Captain,  what  is  the  average 


Their  Pilgrimage.  51 

price  of  land  down  in  this  part  of  Florida  by  the — 
gallon?" 

They  had  come  down  to  the  booths,  and  Mrs.  Ben- 
son was  showing  the  artist  the  shells,  piles  of  conchs, 
and  other  outlandish  sea-fabrications  in  which  it  is 
said  the  roar  of  the  ocean  can  be  heard  when  they  are 
hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  sea.  It  was  a  pretty 
thought,  Mr.  Forbes  said,  and  he  admired  the  open 
shells  that  were  painted  on  the  inside  —  painted  in 
bright  blues  and  greens,  with  dabs  of  white  sails  and 
a  lighthouse,  or  a  boat  with  a  bare-armed,  resolute 
young  woman  in  it,  sending  her  bark  spinning  over 
waves  mountain-high. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  artist,  "  what  cheerfulness  those 
works  of  art  will  give  to  the  little  parlors  up  in  the 
country,  when  they  are  set  up  with  other  shells  on  the 
what-not  in  the  corner!  These  shells  always  used  to 
remind  me  of  missionaries  and  the  cause  of  the  heathen ; 
but  when  I  see  them  now  I  shall  think  of  Atlantic 
City." 

"But  the  representative  things  here,"  interrupted 
Irene,  "  are  the  photographs,  the  tintypes.  To  see 
them  is  just  as  good  as  staying  here  to  see  the  people 
when  they  come." 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mr.  King,  "  I  think  art  cannot  go 
much  further  in  this  direction." 

If  there  were  not  miles  of  these  show-cases  of  tin- 
types, there  were  at  least  acres  of  them.  Occasionally 
an  instantaneous  photograph  gave  a  lively  picture  of 
the  beach  when  the  water  was  full  of  bathers — men, 
women,  children,  in  the  most  extraordinary  costumes 
for  revealing  or  deforming  the  human  figure — all  toss- 


52  Their  Pilgrimage. 

ing  about  in  the  surf.  But  most  of  the  pictures  were 
taken  on  dry  land,  of  single  persons,  couples,  and  groups 
in  their  bathing  suits.  Perhaps  such  an  extraordinary 
collection  of  humanity  cannot  be  seen  elsewhere  in  the 
world,  such  a  uniformity  of  one  depressing  type  re- 
duced to  its  last  analysis  by  the  sea-toilet.  Sometimes 
it  was  a  young  man  and  a  maiden,  handed  down  to 
posterity  in  dresses  that  would  have  caused  their  arrest 
in  the  street,  sentimentally  reclining  on  a  canvas  rock. 
Again  it  was  a  maiden  with  flowing  hair,  raised  hands 
clasped,  eyes  upturned,  on  top  of  a  crag,  at  the  base  of 
which  the  waves  were  breaking  in  foam.  Or  it  was  the 
same  stalwart  maiden,  or  another  as  good,  in  a  boat 
which  stood  on  end,  pulling  through  the  surf  with  one 
oar,  and  dragging  a  drowning  man  (in  a  bathing  suit 
also)  into  the  boat  with  her  free  hand.  The  legend  was, 
"  Saved."  There  never  was  such  heroism  exhibited  by 
young  women  before,  with  such  raiment,  as  was  shown 
in  these  rare  works  of  art. 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  hotel  through  a  sandy 
avenue  lined  with  jig-saw  architecture,  Miss  Benson 
pointed  out  to  them  some  things  that  she  said  had 
touched  her  a  good  deal.  In  the  patches  of  sand  be- 
fore each  house  there  was  generally  an  oblong  little 
mound  set  about  with  a  rim  of  stones,  or,  when  some- 
thing more  artistic  could  be  afforded,  with  shells.  On 
each  of  these  little  graves  was  a  flower,  a  sickly  gera- 
nium, or  a  humble  marigold,  or  some  other  floral  token 
of  affection. 

Mr.  Forbes  said  he  never  was  at  a  watering-place 
before  where  they  buried  the  summer  boarders  in  the 
front  yard.  Mrs.  Benson  didn't  like  joking  on  such 


Their  Pilgrimage.  53 

subjects,  and  Mr.  King  turned  the  direction  of  the  con- 
versation by  remarking  that  these  seeming  trifles  were 
really  of  much  account  in  these  4avs?  an(i  ne  took  from 
his  pocket  a  copy  of  the  city  newspaper,  T/ie  Summer 
Sea- Song,  and  read  some  of  the  leading  items:  "S., 
our  eye  is  on  you."  "  The  Slopers  have  come  to  their 
cottage  on  Q  Street,  and  come  to  stay."  "  Mr.  E.  P. 
Borum  has  painted  his  front  steps."  "Mr.  Diffen- 
dorfer's  marigold  is  on  the  blow."  And  so  on,  and  so 
on.  This  was  probably  the  marigold  mentioned  that 
they  were  looking  at. 

The  most  vivid  impression,  however,  made  upon  the 
visitor  in  this  walk  was  that  of  paint.  It  seemed  un- 
real that  there  could  be  so  much  paint  in  the  world 
and  so  many  swearing  colors.  But  it  ceased  to  be  a 
dream,  and  they  were  taken  back  into  the  hard,  prac- 
tical world,  when,  as  they  turned  the  corner,  Irene 
pointed  out  her  favorite  sign: 

Silas  Lapham,  mineral  paint. 
Branch  Office. 

The  artist  said,  a  couple  of  days  after  this  morning, 
that  he  had  enough  of  it.  "  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  it 
is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  sit  and  talk  with  Mrs.  Ben- 
son, while  you  and  that  pretty  girl  walk  up  and  down 
the  piazza  all  the  evening;  but  I'm  easily  satisfied,  and 
two  evenings  did  for  me." 

So  that  much  as  Mr.  King  was  charmed  with  Atlantic 
City,  and  much  as  he  regretted  not  awaiting  the  ar- 
rival of  the  originals  of  the  tintypes,  he  gave  in  to  the 
restlessness  of  the  artist  for  other  scenes;  but  not  be- 
fore he  had  impressed  Mrs.  Benson  with  a  notion  of 
the  delights  of  Newport  in  July. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HE  view  of  the  Catskills  from  a  cer- 
tain hospitable  mansion  on  the 
east  side  of  the  Hudson  is  bet- 
ter than  any  view  from  those 
delectable  hills.  The  artist 
said  so  one  morning  late  in 
Jnne,  and  Mr.  King  agreed 
with  him,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
but  would  have  no  philosophiz- 
ing about  it,  as  that  anticipa- 
tion is  always  better  than 
realization ;  and  when  Mr. 
Forbes  went  on  to  say  that 
climbing  a  mountain  was  a 
good  deal  like  marriage — the  world  was  likely  to  look 
a  little  flat  once  that  cerulean  height  was  attained — Mr. 
King  only  remarked  that  that  was  a  low  view  to  take 
of  the  subject,  but  he  would  confess  that  it  was  unrea- 
sonable to  expect  that  any  rational  object  could  fulfil, 
or  even  approach,  the  promise  held  out  by  such  an  ex- 
quisite prospect  as  that  before  them. 

The  friends  were  standing  where  the  Catskill  hills 
lay  before  them  in  echelon  towards  the  river,  the  ridges 
lapping  over  each  other  and  receding  in  the  distance, 
a  gradation  of  lines  most  artistically  drawn,  still  further 
refined  by  shades  of  violet,  which  always  have  the  ef- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  55 

feet  upon  the  contemplative  mind  of  either  religious 
exaltation  or  the  kindling  of  a  sentiment  which  is  in 
the  young  akin  to  the  emotion  of  love.  While  the 
artist  was  making  some  memoranda  of  these  outlines, 
and  Mr.  King  was  drawing  I  know  not  what  auguries 
of  hope  from  these  purple  heights,  a  young  lady  seated 
upon  a  rock  near  by — a  young  lady  just  stepping  over 
the  border-line  of  womanhood — had  her  eyes  also  fixed 
upon  those  dreamy  distances,  with  that  look  we  all 
know  so  well,  betraying  that  shy  expectancy  of  life 
which  is  unconf essed,  that  tendency  to  maidenly  reverie 
which  it  were  cruel  to  interpret  literally.  At  the  mo- 
ment she  is  more  interesting  than  the  Catskills — the 
brown  hair,  the  large  eyes  unconscious  of  anything 
but  the  most  natural  emotion,  the  shapely  waist  just 
beginning  to  respond  to  the  call  of  the  future — it  is  a 
pity  that  we  shall  never  see  her  again,  and  that  she 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  our  journey.  She 
also  will  have  her  romance;  fate  will  meet  her  in  the 
way  some  day,  and  set  her  pure  heart  wildly  beating, 
and  she  will  know  what  those  purple  distances  mean. 
Happiness,  tragedy,  anguish — who  can  tell  what  is  in 
store  for  her?  I  cannot  but  feel  profound  sadness  at 
meeting  her  in  this  casual  way  and  never  seeing  her 
again.  Who  says  that  the  world  is  not  full  of  romance 
and  pathos  and  regret  as  we  go  our  daily  way  in  it  ? 
You  meet  her  at  a  railway  station;  there  is  the  flutter 
of  a  veil,  the  gleam  of  a  scarlet  bird,  the  lifting  of  a 
pair  of  eyes — she  is  gone;  she  is  entering  a  drawing- 
room,  and  stops  a  moment  and  turns  away;  she  is  look- 
ing from  a  window  as  you  pass — it  is  only  a  glance 
out  of  eternity;  she  stands  for  a  second  upon  a  rock 


56  Their  Pilgrimage. 

looking  seaward;  she  passes  you  at  the  church  door — 
is  that  all  ?  It  is  discovered  that  instantaneous  photo- 
graphs can  be  taken.  They  are  taken  all  the  time; 
some  of  them  are  never  developed,  but  I  suppose  these 
impressions  are  all  there  on  the  sensitive  plate,  and 
that  the  plate  is  permanently  affected  by  the  impres- 
sions. The  pity  of  it  is  that  the  world  is  so  full  of 
these  undeveloped  knowledges  of  people  worth  know- 
ing and  friendships  worth  making. 

The  comfort  of  leaving  some  things  to  the  imagina- 
tion was  impressed  upon  our  travellers  when  they  left 
the  narrow-gauge  railway  at  the  mountain  station,  and 
identified  themselves  with  other  tourists  by  entering  a 
two-horse  wagon  to  be  dragged  wearily  up  the  hill 
through  the  woods.  The  ascent  would  be  more  tolera- 
ble if  any  vistas  were  cut  in  the  forest  to  give  views 
by  the  way;  as  it  was,  the  monotony  of  the  pull  up- 
ward was  only  relieved  by  the  society  of  the  passen- 
gers. There  were  two  bright  little  girls  off  for  a  holi- 
day with  their  Western  uncle,  a  big,  good-natured 
man  with  a  diamond  breast-pin,  and  his  voluble  son,  a 
lad  about  the  age  of  his  little  cousins,  whom  he  con- 
stantly pestered  by  his  rude  and  dominating  behavior. 
The  boy  was  a  product  which  it  is  the  despair  of  all 
Europe  to  produce,  and  our  travellers  had  great  delight 
in  him  as  an  epitome  of  American  "  smartness."  He 
led  all  the  conversation,  had  confident  opinions  about 
everything,  easily  put  down  his  deferential  papa,  and 
pleased  the  other  passengers  by  his  self -sufficient,  know- 
it-all  air.  To  a  boy  who  had  travelled  in  California 
and  seen  the  Alps  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  this 
humble  mountain  could  afford  much  entertainment, 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE. 

and  he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  contempt  for  it. 
When  the  stage  reached  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  House, 
half-way,  the  shy  schoolgirls  were  for  indulging  a  lit- 
tle sentiment  over  the  old  legend,  but  the  boy,  who 
concealed  his  ignorance  of  the  Irving  romance  until 
his  cousins  had  prattled  the  outlines  of  it,  was  not  to 


58  Their  Pilgrimage. 

be  taken  in  by  any  such  chaff,  and  though  he  was  a 
little  staggered  by  Rip's  own  cottage,  and  by  the  sight 
of  the  cave  above  it  which  is  labelled  as  the  very  spot 
where  the  vagabond  took  his  long  nap,  he  attempted 
to  bully  the  attendant  and  drink-mixer  in  the  hut,  and 
openly  flaunted  his  incredulity  until  the  bar-tender 
showed  him  a  long  bunch  of  Rip's  hair,  which  hung 
like  a  scalp  on  a  nail,  and  the  rusty  barrel  and  stock 
of  the  musket.  The  cabin  is,  indeed,  full  of  old  guns, 
pistols,  locks  of  hair,  buttons,  cartridge-boxes,  bullets, 
knives,  and  other  undoubted  relics  of  Rip  and  the 
Revolution.  This  cabin,  with  its 'facilities  for  slaking 
thirst  on  a  hot  day,  which  Rip  would  have  appreciated, 
over  a  hundred  years  old  according  to  information  to 
Jbe  obtained  on  the  spot,  is  really  of  unknown  antiquity, 
the  old  boards  and  timber  of  which  it  is  constructed 
having  been  brought  down  from  the  Mountain  House 
some  forty  years  ago. 

The  old  Mountain  House,  standing  upon  its  ledge  of 
rock,  from  which  one  looks  down  upon  a  map  of  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  New  York  and  New  England,  with 
the  lake  in  the  rear,  and  heights  on  each  side  that  offer 
charming  walks  to  those  who  have  in  contemplation 
views  of  nature  or  of  matrimony,  has  somewhat  lost 
its  importance  since  the  vast  Catskill  region  has  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  A  generation  ago  it 
was  the  centre  of  attraction,  and  it  was  understood 
that  going  to  the  Catskills  was  going  there.  Genera- 
tions of  searchers  after  immortality  have  chiselled  their 
names  in  the  rock  platform,  and  the  one  who  sits  there 
now  falls  to  musing  on  the  vanity  of  human  nature 
and  the  transitoriness  of  fashion.  Now  New  York  has 


Their  Pilgrimage.  59 

found  that  it  has  very  convenient  to  it  a  great  moun- 
tain pleasure-ground;  railways  and  excellent  roads 
have  pierced  it,  the  varied  beauties  of  rocks,  ravines, 
and  charming  retreats  are  revealed,  excellent  hotels 
capable  of  entertaining  a  thousand  guests  are  planted 
on  heights  and  slopes  commanding  mountain  as  well 
as  lowland  prospects,  great  and  small  boarding-houses 
cluster  in  the  high  valleys  and  on  the  hillsides,  and 
cottages  more  thickly  every  year  dot  the  wild  region. 
Year  by  year  these  accommodations  will  increase,  new 
roads  around  the  gorges  will  open  more  enchanting 
views,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  species  of 
American  known  as  the  "  summer  boarder  "  will  have 
his  highest  development  and  apotheosis  in  these  moun- 
tains. 

Nevertheless  Mr.  King  was  not  uninterested  in  re- 
newing his  memories  of  the  old  house.  He  could  re- 
call without  difficulty,  and  also  without  emotion  now, 
a  scene  on  this  upper  veranda  and  a  moonlight  night 
long  ago,  and  he  had  no  doubt  he  could  find  her  name 
carved  on  a  beech-tree  in  the  wood  near  by;  but  it 
was  useless  to  look  for  it,  for  her  name  had  been 
changed.  The  place  was,  indeed,  full  of  memories, 
but  all  chastened  and  subdued  by  the  in-door  atmos- 
phere, which  impressed  him  as  that  of  a  faded  Sunday. 
He  was  very  careful  not  to  disturb  the  decorum  by 
any  frivolity  of  demeanor,  and  he  cautioned  the  artist 
on  this  point;  but  Mr.  Forbes  declared  that  the  dining- 
room  fare  kept  his  spirits  at  a  proper  level.  There 
was  an  old-time  satisfaction  in  wandering  into  the  par- 
lor, and  resting  on  the  hair-cloth  sofa,  and  looking  at 
the  hair-cloth  chairs,  and  pensively  imagining  a  meet- 


60  Their  Pilgrimage. 

ing  there,  with  songs  out  of  the  Moody  and  Sankey 
book;  and  he  did  not  tire  of  dropping  into  the  repose- 
ful reception-room,  where  he  never  by  any  chance  met 
anybody,  and  sitting  with  the  melodeon  and  big  Bible 
Society  edition  of  the  Scriptures,  and  a  chance  copy 
of  the  Christian  at  Play.  These  amusements  were 
varied  by  sympathetic  listening  to  the  complaints  of 
the  proprietor  about  the  vandalism  of  visitors  who 
wrote  with  diamonds  on  the  window-panes,  so  that  the 
glass  had  to  be  renewed,  or  scratched  their  names  on 
the  pillars  of  the  piazza,  so  that  the  whole  front  had 
to  be  repainted,  or  broke  off  the  azalea  blossoms,  or  in 
other  ways  desecrated  the  premises.  In  order  to  fit 
himself  for  a  sojourn  here,  Mr.  King  tried  to  commit 
to  memory  a  placard  that  was  neatly  framed  and  hung 
on  the  veranda,  wherein  it  was  stated  that  the  owner 
cheerfully  submits  to  all  necessary  use  of  the  premises, 
"but  will  not  permit  any  unnecessary  use,  or  the  ex- 
ercise of  a  depraved  taste  or  vandalism."  There  were 
not  as  yet  many  guests,  and  those  who  were  there 
seemed  to  have  conned  this  placard  to  their  improve- 
ment, for  there  was  not  much  exercise  of  any  sort  of 
taste.  Of  course  there  were  two  or  three  brides,  and 
there  was  the  inevitable  English  nice  middle -class 
tourist  with  his  wife,  the  latter  ramroddy  and  uncom- 
promising, in  big  boots  and  botanical,  who,  in  response 
to  a  gentleman  who  was  giving  her  information  about 
travel,  constantly  ejaculated,  in  broad  English,  "  Yas, 
yas;  ow,  ow,  ow,  really!"  And  there  was  the  young 
bride  from  Kankazoo,  who  frightened  Mr.  King  back 
into  his  chamber  one  morning  when  he  opened  his 
door  and  beheld  the  vision  of  a  woman  going  towards 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


61 


the  breakfast  -  room  in 
what  he  took  to  be  a 
robe  de  nuit,  but  which 
turned  out  to  be  one  of 
the  "  Mother  Hubbards  " 
which  have  had  a  cer- 
tain celebrity  as  street 
dresses  in  some  parts  of 
the  West,  But  these 
gayeties  palled  after  a 
time,  and  one  afternoon 
oar  travellers,  with  their 
vandalism  all  subdued, 
walked  a  mile  over  the 
rocks  to  the  Kaaterskill 
House,  and  took  up  their 
abode  there  to  watcli  the 
opening  of  the  season. 
Xaturally  they  expected 
some  difficulty  in  transfering  their  two  trunks  round 
by  the  road,  where  there  had  been  nothing  but  a  wil- 
derness forty  years  ago;  but  their  change  of  base  was 
facilitated  by  the  obliging  hotel-keeper  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  and  when  he  insisted  on  charging 
only  four  dollars  for  moving  the  trunks,  the  two 
friends  said  that,  considering  the  wear  and  tear  of 
the  mountain  involved,  they  did  not  see  how  he  could 
afford  to  do  it  for  such  a  sum,  and  they  went  away, 
as  they  said,  well  pleased. 

It  happened  to  be  at  the  Kaaterskill  House — it 
might  have  been  at  the  Grand,  or  the  Overlook — that 
the  young  gentlemen  in  search  of  information  saw 


THE   BRIDE   FROM   KANKAZOO. 


62  Th&ir  Pilgrimage. 

the  Catskill  season  get  under  way.  The  phase  of 
American  life  is  much  the  same  at  all  these  great  car- 
avansaries. It  seems  to  the  writer,  who  has  the  great- 
est admiration  for  the  military  genius  that  can  feed 
and  fight  an  army  in  the  field,  that  not  enough  ac- 
count is  made  of  the  greater  genius  that  can  organize 
and  carry  on  a  great  American  hotel,  with  a  thousand 
or  fifteen  hundred  guests,  in  a  short,  sharp,  and  deci- 
sive campaign  of  two  months,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
substantial  fruits  of  victory  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
landlord,  and  the  guests  are  allowed  to  depart  with 
only  their  personal  baggage  and  side-arms,  but  so 
well  pleased  that  they  are  inclined  to  renew  the  con- 
test next  year.  This  is  a  triumph  of  mind  over  mind. 
It  is  not  merely  the  organization  and  the  management 
of  the  army  under  the  immediate  command  of  the 
landlord,  the  accumulation  and  distribution  of  sup- 
plies upon  this  mountain-top,  in  the  uncertainty  wheth- 
er the  garrison  on  a  given  day  will  be  one  hundred 
or  one  thousand,  not  merely  the  lodging,  rationing, 
and  amusing  of  this  shifting  host,  but  the  satisfying 
of  as  many  whims  and  prejudices  as  there  are  people 
who  leave  home  on  purpose  to  grumble  and  enjoy 
themselves  in  the  exercise  of  a  criticism  they  dare  not 
indulge  in  their  own  houses.  Our  friends  had  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  the  machinery  set  in  motion  in  one 
of  these  great  establishments.  Here  was  a  vast  bal- 
loon structure,  founded  on  a  rock,  but  built  in  the  air, 
and  anchored  with  cables,  with  towers  and  a  high-pil- 
lared veranda,  capable,  with  its  annex,  of  lodging  fif- 
teen hundred  people.  The  army  of  waiters  and  cham- 
ber-maids, of  bellboys  and  scullions  and  porters  and 


Their  Pilgrimage.  63 

laundry-folk,  was   arriving ;    the    stalwart   scrubbers 
were   at   work,  the    store-rooms    were   filhd,  the   big 
kitchen  shone  with  its  burnished  coppers,  and  an  ar- 
ray of  white-capped  and  aproned  cooks  stood  in  line 
under  their  chef;  the  telegraph  operator  was  waiting 
at  her  desk,  the  drug  clerk  was  arranging  his  bottles, 
the  newspaper  stand  was  furnished,  the  post-office  was 
open  for  letters.     It  needed  but  the  arrival  of  a  guest 
to  set  the  machinery  in  motion.     And  as  soon  as  the 
guest  came  the  band  would  be  there  to  launch  him 
into  the  maddening  gayety  of  the  season.     It  would 
welcome  his  arrival  in  triumphant  strains;  it  would 
pursue  him  at  dinner,  and  drown  his  conversation;  it 
will  fill  his  siesta  with  martial  dreams,  and  it  would 
seize  his  legs  in  the  evening,  and  entreat  him  to  caper 
in  the  parlor.     Everything  was  ready.     And  this  was 
what  happened.     It  was  the  evening  of  the  opening 
day.     The  train  wagons  might  be  expected  any  mo- 
ment.     The   electric  lights   were   blazing.      All   the 
clerks  stood  expectant,  the  porters  were  by  the  door, 
the  trim,  uniformed  bellboys  were  all  in  waiting  line, 
the  register  clerk  stood  fingering  the  leaves  of  the  reg- 
ister writh  a  gracious  air.     A  noise  is  heard  outside, 
the  big  door  opens,  there  is  a  rush  forward,  and  four 
people  flock  in — a  man  in  a  linen  duster,  a  stout  wom- 
an, a  lad  of  ten,  a  smartly  dressed  young  lady,  and  a 
dog.     Movement,  welcome,  ringing  of  bells,  tramping 
of  feet — the  whole  machinery  has  started.     It  was  ad- 
justed to  crack  an  egg-shell  or  smash  an  iron-bound 
trunk.     The  few  drops  presaged  a  shower.    The  next 
day  there  were  a  hundred  on  the  register;  the  day  af- 
ter, two  hundred;  and  the  day  following,  an  excursion. 


64  Their  Pilgrimage. 

With  increasing  arrivals  opportunity  was  offered  for 
the  study  of  character.  Away  from  his  occupation, 
away  from  the  cares  of  the  household  and  the  de- 
mands of  society,  what  is  the  self-sustaining  capacity 
of  the  ordinary  American  man  and  woman  ?  It  was 
interesting  to  note  the  enthusiasm  of  the  first  arrival, 
the  delight  in  the  view — Round  Top,  the  deep  gorges, 
the  charming  vista  of  the  lowlands,  a  world  and  wil- 
derness of  beauty;  the  inspiration  of  the  air,  the  alert- 
ness to  explore  in  all  directions,  to  see  the  lake,  the 
falls,  the  mountain  paths.  But  is  a  mountain  sooner 
found  out  than  a  valley,  or  is  there  a  want  of  internal 
resources,  away  from  business,  that  the  men  presently 
become  rather  listless,  take  perfunctory  walks  for  exer- 
cise, and  are  so  eager  for  meal-time  and  mail-time? 
Why  do  they  depend  so  much  upon  the  newspapers, 
when  they  all  despise  the  newspapers  ?  Mr.  King 
used  to  listen  of  an  evening  to  the  commonplace  talk 
about  the  fire,  all  of  which  was  a  dilution  of  what 
they  had  just  got  out  of  the  newspapers,  but  what  a 
lively  assent  there  was  to  a  glib  talker  who  wound  up 
his  remarks  with  a  denunciation  of  the  newspapers  ! 
The  man  was  no  doubt  quite  right,  but  did  he  reflect 
on  the  public  loss  of  his  valuable  conversation  the 
next  night  if  his  newspaper  should  chance  to  fail  ? 
And  the  women,  after  their  first  feeling  of  relief,  did 
they  fall  presently  into  petty  gossip,  complaints  about 
the  table,  criticisms  of  each  other's  dress,  small  dis- 
contents with  nearly  everything  ?  Not  all  of  them. 

An  excursion  is  always  resented  by  the  regular  oc- 
cupants of  a  summer  resort,  who  look  down  upon  the 
excursionists,  while  they  condescend  to  be  amused  by 


Their  Pilgrimage.  65 

them.  It  is  perhaps  only  the  common  attitude  of  the 
wholesale  to  the  retail  dealer,  although  it  is  undeniable 
that  a  person  seems  temporarily  to  change  his  nature 
when  he  becomes  part  of  an  excursion;  whether  it  is 
from  the  elation  at  the  purchase  of  a  day  of  gayety 
below  the  market  price,  or  the  escape  from  personal 
responsibility  under  a  conductor,  or  the  love  of  being 
conspicuous  as  a  part  of  a  sort  of  organization,  the  ex- 
cursionist is  not  on  his  ordinary  behavior. 

An  excursion  numbering  several  hundreds,  gathered' 
along  the  river  towns  by  the  benevolent  enterprise  of 
railway  officials,  came  up  to  the  mountain  one  day. 
The  officials  seemed  to  have  run  a  drag-net  through 
factories,  workshops,  Sunday-schools,  and  churches, 
and  scooped  in  the  weary  workers  at  homes  and 
in  shops  unaccustomed  to  a  holiday.  Our  friends 
formed  a  part  of  a  group  on  the  hotel  piazza  who 
watched  the  straggling  arrival  of  this  band  of  pleas- 
ure. For  by  this  time  our  two  friends  had  found  a 
circle  of  acquaintances,  with  the  facility  of  watering- 
place  life,  which  in  its  way  represented  certain  phases 
of  American  life  as  well  as  the  excursion.  A  great 
many  writers  have  sought  to  classify  and  label  and 
put  into  a  paragraph  a  description  of  the  American 
girl.  She  is  not  to  be  disposed  of  by  any  such  easy 
process.  Undoubtedly  she  has  some  common  marks 
of  nationality  that  distinguish  her  from  the  English 
girl,  but  in  variety  she  is  practically  infinite,  and  like- 
ly to  assume  almost  any  form,  and  the  characteristics 
of  a  dozen  nationalities.  No  one  type  represents  her. 
What,  indeed,  would  one  say  of  this  little  group  on 
the  hotel  piazza,  making  its  comments  upon  the  excur- 
5 


66  Their  Pilgrimage. 

sionists  ?  Here  is  a  young  lady  of,  say,  twenty-three 
years,  inclining  already  to  stoutness,  domestic,  placid, 
with  matron  written  on  every  line  of  her  unselfish 
face,  capable  of  being,  if  necessity  were,  a  notable 
housekeeper,  learned  in  preserves  and  jellies  and  cor- 
dials, sure  to  have  her  closets  in  order,  and  a  place  for 
every  remnant,  piece  of  twine,  and  all  odds  and  ends. 
Not  a  person  to  read  Browning  with,  but  to  call  on  if 
one  needed  a  nurse,  or  a  good  dinner,  or  a  charitable 
deed.  Beside  her,  in  an  invalid's  chair,  a  young  girl, 
scarcely  eighteen,  of  quite  another  sort,  pale,  slight, 
delicate,  with  a  lovely  face  and  large  sentimental  eyes, 
all  nerves,  the  product,  perhaps,  of  a  fashionable 
school,  who  in  one  season  in  New  York,  her  first,  had 
utterly  broken  down  into  what  is  called  nervous  pros- 
tration. In  striking  contrast  was  Miss  Nettie  Sumner, 
perhaps  twenty-one,  who  corresponded  more  nearly  to 
what  the  internationalists  call  the  American  type ;  had 
evidently  taken  school  education  as  a  duck  takes  wa- 
ter, and  danced  along  in  society  into  apparent  robust- 
ness of  person  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  A  hand- 
some girl,  she  would  be  a  comely  woman,  good-nat- 
ured, quick  at  repartee,  confining  her  knowledge  of 
books  to  popular  novels,  too  natural  and  frank  to  be  a 
flirt,  an  adept  in  all  the  nice  slang  current  in  fashion- 
able life,  caught  up  from  collegians  and  brokers,  ac- 
customed to  meet  men  in  public  life,  in  hotels,  a  very 
"jolly"  companion,  with  a  fund  of  good  sense  that 
made  her  entirely  capable  of  managing  her  own  af- 
fairs. Mr.  King  was  at  the  moment  conversing  with 
still  another  young  lady,  who  had  more  years  than  the 
last-named — short,  compact  figure,  round  girlish  face, 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


67 


good,  strong,  dark  eyes,  modest  in  bearing,  self-pos- 
sessed in  manner,  sensible — who  made  ready  and  inci- 
sive comments,  and  seemed  to  have  thought  deeply 
on  a  large  range  of  topics,  but  had  a  sort  of  down- 


EXCURSIONISTS. 


right  practicality  and  cool  independence,  with  all  her 
femininity  of  bearing,  that  rather  puzzled  her  inter- 
locutor. It  occurred  to  Mr.  King  to  guess  that  Miss 


68  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Selina  Morton  might  be  from  Boston,  which  she  was 
not,  but  it  was  with  a  sort  of  shock  of  surprise  that  he 
learned  later  that  this  young  girl,  moving  about  in  so- 
ciety in  the  innocent  panoply  of  girlhood,  was  a  young 
doctor,  who  had  no  doubt  looked  through  and  through 
him  with  her  keen  eyes,  studied  him  in  the  light  of 
heredity,  constitutional  tendencies,  habits,  and  envi- 
ronment, as  a  possible  patient.  It  almost  made  him 
ill  to  think  of  it.  Here  were  types  enough  for  one 
morning;  but  there  was  still  another. 

The  artist  had  seated  himself  on  a  rock  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  house,  and  was  trying  to  catch  some  of 
the  figures  as  they  appeared  up  the  path,  and  a  young 
girl  was  looking  over  his  shoulder  with  an  amused 
face,  just  as  he  was  getting  an  elderly  man  in  a  long 
flowing  duster,  straggling  gray  hair,  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  large  iron-rimmed  spectacles,  with  a  baggy 
umbrella,  who  stopped  breathless  at  the  summit,  with 
a  wild  glare  of  astonishment  at  the  view.  This  young 
girl,  whom  the  careless  observer  might  pass  without  a 
second  glance,  was  discovered  on  better  acquaintance 
to  express  in  her  face  and  the  lines  of  her  figure  some 
subtle  intellectual  quality  not  easily  interpreted.  Ma- 
rion Lamont,  let  us  say  at  once,  was  of  Southern  ori- 
gin, born  in  London  during  the  temporary  residence 
of  her  parents  there,  and  while  very  young  deprived 
by  death  of  her  natural  protectors.  She  had  a  small, 
low  voice,  fine  hair  of  a  light  color,  which  contrasted 
with  dark  eyes,  waved  back  from  her  forehead,  deli- 
cate, sensitive  features  —  indeed,  her  face,  especially 
in  conversation  with  any  one,  almost  always  had  a 
wistful,  appealing  look;  in  figure  short  and  very  slight, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  69 

lithe  and  graceful,  full  of  unconscious  artistic  poses, 
fearless  and  surefooted  as  a  gazelle  in  climbing  about 
the  rocks,  leaping  from  stone  to  stone,  and  even  mak- 
ing her  way  up  a  tree  that  had  convenient  branches, 
if  the  whim  took  her,  using  her  hands  and  arms  like  a 
gymnast,  and  performing  whatever  feat  of  daring  or 
dexterity  as  if  the  exquisitely  moulded  form  was  all 
instinct  with  her  indomitable  will,  and  obeyed  it,  and 
always  with  an  air  of  refinement  and  spirited  breed- 
ing. A  child  of  nature  in  seeming,  but  yet  a  wom- 
an who  was  not  to  be  fathomed  by  a  chance  ac- 
quaintance. 

The  old  man  with  the  spectacles  was  presently  over- 
taken by  a  stout,  elderly  woman,  who  landed  in  the 
exhausted  condition  of  a  porpoise  that  has  come  ashore, 
and  stood  regardless  of  everything  but  her  own  weight, 
while  member  after  member  of  the  party  straggled  up. 
No  sooner  did  this  group  espy  the  artist  than  they 
moved  in  his  direction.  "There's  a  painter."  "I 
wonder  what  he's  painting."  "  Maybe  he'll  paint  us." 
"Let's  see  what  he's  doing."  "I  should  like  to  see  a 
man  paint."  And  the  crowd  flowed  on,  getting  in 
front  of  the  sketcher,  and  creeping  round  behind  him 
for  a  peep  over  his  shoulder.  The  artist  closed  his 
sketch-book  and  retreated,  and  the  stout  woman, 
balked  of  that  prey,  turned  round  a  moment  to  the 
view,  exclaimed,  "Ain't  that  elegant!"  and  then  wad- 
dled off  to  the  hotel. 

"  I  wonder,"  Mr.  King  was  saying,  "  if  these  ex- 
cursionists are  representative  of  general  American 
life?" 

"  If  they  are,"  said  the  artist,  "  there's  little  here  for 


70  Their  Pilgrimage. 

my  purpose.  A  good  many  of  them  seem  to  be  foreign- 
ers, or  of  foreign  origin.  Just  as  soon  as  these  people 
get  naturalized,  they  lose  the  picturesqueness  they  had 
abroad." 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  your  highness  that  they  may 
prefer  to  be  comfortable  rather  than  picturesque,  and 
that  they  may  be  ignorant  that  they  were  born  for 
artistic  purposes  ?"  It  was  the  low  voice  of  Miss  La- 
mont,  and  that  demure  person  looked  up  as  if  she  real- 
ly wanted  information. 

"I  doubt  about  the  comfort,"  the  artist  began  to 
reply. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  said  Miss  Sumner.  "  What  on  earth 
do  you  suppose  made  those  girls  come  up  here  in  white 
dresses,  blowing  about  in  the  wind,  and  already  drab- 
bled ?  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lot  of  cheap  millinery  ? 
I  haven't  seen  a  woman  yet  with  the  least  bit  of 
style." 

"Poor  things,  they  look  as  if  they'd  never  had  a 
holiday  before  in  their  lives,  and  didn't  exactly  know 
what  to  do  with  it,"  apologized  Miss  Lamont. 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  They've  been  to  more  church 
and  Sunday-school  picnics  than  you  ever  attended. 
Look  over  there!" 

It  was  a  group  seated  about  their  lunch-baskets. 
A  young  gentleman,  the  comedian  of  the  party,  the 
life  of  the  church  sociable,  had  put  on  the  hat  of  one 
of  the  girls,  and  was  making  himself  so  irresistibly 
funny  in  it  that  all  the  girls  tittered,  and  their  mothers 
looked  a  little  shamefaced  and  pleased. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  King,  "that's  the  only  festive 
sign  I've  seen.  It's  more  like  a  funeral  procession  than 


Their  Pilgrimage.  71 

a  pleasure  excursion.  What  impresses  me  is  the  ex- 
treme gravity  of  these  people — no  fun,  no  hilarity,  no 
letting  themselves  loose  for  a  good  time,  as  they  say. 
Probably  they  like  it,  but  they  seem  to  have  no  ca- 
pacity for  enjoying  themselves;  they  have  no  vivacity, 
no  gayety — what  a  contrast  to  a  party  in  France  or 
Germany  off  for  a  day's  pleasure — no  devices,  no  re- 
sources." 

"Yes,  it's  all  sad,  respectable,  confoundedly  unin- 
teresting. What  does  the  doctor  say?"  asked  the 
artist. 

"I  know  what  the  doctor  will  say,"  put  in  Miss 
Sumner,  u  but  I  tell  you  that  what  this  crowd  needs  is 
missionary  dressmakers  and  tailors.  If  I  were  dressed 
that  way  I  should  feel  and  act  just  as  they  do.  Well, 
Selina?" 

"  It's  pretty  melancholy.  The  trouble  is  constant 
grinding  work  and  bad  food.  I've  been  studying  these 
people.  The  women  are  all — " 

"  Ugly,"  suggested  the  artist. 

"  Well,  ill-favored,  scrimped;  that  means  ill-nurtured 
simply.  Out  of  the  three  hundred  there  are  not  half  a 
dozen  well-conditioned,  filled  out  physically  in  comfort- 
able proportions.  Most  of  the  women  look  as  if  they 
had  been  dragged  out  with  in-door  work  and  little  in- 
tellectual life,  but  the  real  cause  of  physical  degenera- 
tion is  bad  cooking.  If  they  lived  more  out-of-doors, 
as  women  do  in  Italy,  the  food  might  not  make  so 
much  difference,  but  in  our  climate  it  is  the  prime  thing. 
This  poor  physical  state  accounts  for  the  want  of 
gayety  and  the  lack  of  beauty.  The  men,  on  the 
whole,  are  better  than  the  women,  that  is,  the  young 


72  Their  Pilgrimage. 

men.  I  don't  know  as  these  people  are  overworked, 
as  the  world  goes.  I  dare  say,  Nettie,  there's  not  a 
girl  in  this  crowd  who  could  dance  with  you  through 
a  season.  They  need  to  be  better  fed,  and  to  have 
more  elevating  recreations  —  something  to  educate 
their  taste." 

"  I've  been  educating  the  taste  of  one  excursionist 
this  morning,  a  good-faced  workman,  who  was  pry- 
ing about  everywhere  with  a  curious  air,  and  said  he 
never'd  been  on  an  excursion  before.  He  came  up  to 
me  in  the  office,  deferentially  asked  me  if  I  would  go 
into  the  parlor  with  him,  and,  pointing  to  something 
hanging  on  the  wall,  asked,  '  What  is  that  ?'  *  That,' 
I  said,  *  is  a  view  from  Sunset  Rock,  and  a  very  good 
one.'  l  Yes,'  he  continued,  walking  close  up  to  it, '  but 
what  is  it  ?'  '  Why,  it's  a  painting.'  '  Oh,  it  isn't  the 
place?'  'No,  no;  it's  a  painting  in  oil,  done  with  a 
brush  on  a  piece  of  canvas — don't  you  see — made  to 
look  like  the  view  over  there  from  the  rock,  colors  and 
all.'  '  Yes,  I  thought,  perhaps — you  can  see  a  good 
ways  in  it.  It's  pooty.'  '  There's  another  one/  I  said 
— *  falls,  water  coming  down,  and  trees.'  l  Well,  I  de- 
clare, so  it  is!  And  that's  jest  a  make-believe?  I 
s'pose  I  can  go  round  and  look?'  'Certainly.'  And 
the  old  fellow  tiptoed  round  the  parlor,  peering  at  all 
the  pictures  in  a  confused  state  of  mind,  and  with  a 
guilty  look  of  enjoyment.  It  seems  incredible  that  a 
person  should  attain  his  age  with  such  freshness  of 
mind.  But  I  think  he  is  the  only  one  of  the  party 
who  even  looked  at  the  paintings." 

"I  think  it's  just  pathetic,"  said  Miss  Lamont. 
"  Don't  you,  Mr.  Forbes?" 


Their  Pilgrimage.  73 

"  No ;  I  think  it's  encouraging.  It's  a  sign  of  an  art 
appreciation  in  this  country.  That  man  will  know 
a  painting  next  time  he  sees  one,  and  then  he  won't 
rest  till  he  has  bought  a  chromo,  and  so  he  will  go 
on." 

"And  if  he  lives  long  enough,  he  will  buy  one  of 
Mr.  Forbes's  paintings." 

"  But  not  the  one  that  Miss  Lamont  is  going  to  sit 
for." 

When  Mr.  King  met  the  party  at  the  dinner-table, 
the  places  of  Miss  Lamont  and  Mr.  Forbes  were  still 
vacant.  The  other  ladies  looked  significantly  at  them, 
and  one  of  them  said,  "  Don't  you  think  there's  some- 
thing in  it  ?  don't  you  think  they  are  interested  in  each 
other  "  Mr.  King  put  down  his  soup-spoon,  too  much 
amazed  to  reply.  Do  women  never  think  of  anything 
but  mating  people  who  happen  to  be  thrown  together  ? 
Here  were  this  young  lady  and  his  friend,  who  had 
known  each  other  for  three  days,  perhaps,  in  the  most 
casual  way,  and  her  friends  had  her  already  as  good  as 
married  to  him  and  off  on  a  wedding  journey.  All 
that  Mr.  King  said,  after  apparent  deep  cogitation, 
was,  "  I  suppose  if  it  were  here  it  would  have  to 
be  in  a  travelling-dress,"  which  the  women  thought 
frivolous. 

Yet  it  was  undeniable  that  the  artist  and  Marion 
had  a  common  taste  for  hunting  out  picturesque  places 
in  the  wood  paths,  among  the  rocks,  and  on  the  edges 
of  precipices,  and  they  dragged  the  rest  of  the  party 
many  a  mile  through  wildernesses  of  beauty.  Sketch- 
ing was  the  object  of  all  these  expeditions,  but  it  always 
happened — there  seemed  a  fatality  in  it — that  when- 


THE  ARTIST  8  FAVORITE   OCCUPATION. 

ever  they  halted  anywhere  for  a  rest  or  a  view,  the 
Lament  girl  was  sure  to  take  an  artistic  pose,  which 
the  artist  couldn't  resist,  and  his  whole  occupation 
seemed  to  be  drawing  her,  with  the  Catskills  for  a 
background.  "  There,"  he  would  say,  "  stay  just  as 
you  are;  yes,  leaning  a  little  so" — it  was  wonderful 
how  the  lithe  figure  adapted  itself  to  any  background — 
"  and  turn  your  head  this  way,  looking  at  me."  The 
artist  began  to  draw,  and  every  time  he  gave  a  quick 
glance  upwards  from  his  book,  there  were  the  wistful 


Their  Pilgrimage.  75 

face  and  those  eyes.  "  Confound  it!  I  beg  your  par- 
don— the  light.  Will  you  please  turn  your  eyes  a  lit- 
tle off,  that  way — so."  There  was  no  reason  why  the 
artist  should  be  nervous,  the  face  was  perfectly  demure ; 
but  the  fact  is  that  art  will  have  only  one  mistress. 
So  the  drawing  limped  on  from  day  to  day,  and  the 
excursions  became  a  matter  of  course.  Sometimes  the 
party  drove,  extending  their  explorations  miles  among 
the  hills,  exhilarated  by  the  sparkling  air,  excited  by 
the  succession  of  lovely  changing  prospects,  bestowing 
their  compassion  upon  the  summer  boarders  in  the 
smartly  painted  boarding-houses,  and  comparing  the 
other  big  hotels  with  their  own.  They  couldn't  help 
looking  down  on  the  summer  boarders,  any  more  than 
cottagers  at  other  places  can  help  a  feeling  of  superi- 
ority to  people  in  hotels.  It  is  a  natural  desire  to 
make  an  aristocratic  line  somewhere.  Of  course  they 
saw  the  Kaaterskill  Falls,  and  bought  twenty-five 
cents'  worth  of  water  to  pour  over  them,  and  they 
came  very  near  seeing  the  Haines  Falls,  but  were  a 
little  too  late. 

"Have  the  falls  been  taken  in  to-day?"  asked 
Marion,  seriously. 

"I'm  real  sorry,  miss,"  said  the  proprietor,  "but 
there's  just  been  a  party  here  and  taken  the  water. 
But  you  can  go  down  and  look  if  you  want  to,  and  it 
won't  cost  you  a  cent." 

They  went  down,  and  saw  where  the  falls  ought  to 
be.  The  artist  said  it  was  a  sort  of  dry-plate  process, 
to  be  developed  in  the  mind  afterwards;  Mr.  King 
likened  it  to  a  dry  smoke  without  lighting  the  cigar; 
and  the  doctor  said  it  certainly  had  the  sanitary  ad- 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


vantage  of  not  being 
damp.  The  party 
even  penetrated  the 
Platerskill  Cove,  and 
were  well  rewarded 
by  its  exceeding 
beauty,  as  is  every 
one  who  goes  there. 
There  are  sketches 
of  all  these  lovely 
places  in  a  certain 
artist's  book,  all 
looking,  however, 
very  much  alike,  and 
consisting  principal- 
ly of  a  graceful  fig- 
ure in  a  great 
variety  of  un- 
studied atti- 
tudes. 

"Isn't  this  a 
nervous  sort  of 
a  place?"  the 
artist  asked  his 
friend,  as  ^  they 
sat  in  his  cham- 
ber overlooking 
the  world. 

"Perhaps  it  is.     I  have  a  fancy  that  some  people 
are  born  to  enjoy  the  valley,  and  some  the  mountains." 

"  I  think  it  makes  a  person  nervous  to  live  on  a  high 
place.     This  feeling  of  constant  elevation  tires  one; 


THE  ASCENT  TO  KAATERSKILL  PALLS. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  77 

it  gives  a  fellow  no  such  sense  of  bodily  repose  as  he 
has  in  a  valley.  And  the  wind,  it's  constantly  nag- 
ging, rattling  the  windows  and  banging  the  doors.  I 
can't  escape  the  unrest  of  it."  The  artist  was  turn- 
ing the  leaves  and  contemplating  the  poverty  of  his 
sketch-book.  "  The  fact  is,  I  get  better  subjects  on 
the  sea-shore." 

"  Probably  the  sea  would  suit  us  better.  By  the 
way,  did  I  tell  you  that  Miss  Lament's  uncle  came  last 
night  from  Richmond?  Mr.  De  Long,  uncle  on  the 
mother's  side.  I  thought  there  was  French  blood  in 
her." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"  Oh,  a  comfortable  bachelor,  past  middle  age;  busi- 
ness man;  Southern;  just  a  little  touch  of  the  'cyar' 
for  l  car.'  Said  he  was  going  to  take  his  niece  to  New- 
port next  week.  Has  Miss  Lamont  said  anything 
about  going  there  ?" 

"  Well,  she  did  mention  it  the  other  day." 

The  house  was  filling  up,  and,  King  thought,  losing 
its  family  aspect.  He  had  taken  quite  a  liking  for  the. 
society  of  the  pretty  invalid  girl,  and  was  fond  of 
sitting  by  her,  seeing  the  delicate  color  come  back  to 
her  cheeks,  and  listening  to  her  shrewd  little  society 
comments.  He  thought  she  took  pleasure  in  having 
him  push  her  wheel-chair  up  and  down  the  piazza — at 
least  she  rewarded  him  by  grateful  looks,  and  compli- 
mented him  by  asking  his  advice  about  reading  and 
about  being  useful  to  others.  Like  most  young  girls 
whose  career  of  gayety  is  arrested  as  hers  was,  she  felt 
an  inclination  to  coquet  a  little  with  the  serious  side 
of  life.  All  this  had  been  pleasant  to  Mr.  King,  but 


78 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


now  that  so  many  more  guests  had  come,  he  found 
himself  most  of  the  time  out  of  business.  The  girl's 
chariot  was  always  surrounded  by  admirers  and  sym- 
pathizers. All  the  young  men  were  anxious  to  wheel 
her  up  and  down  by  the  hour;  there  was  always  a 
strife  for  this  sweet  office;  and  at  night,  when  the  ve- 
hicle had  been  lifted  up  the  first  flight,  it  was  beauti- 


THEKE  WAS  ALL   DAY  LONG  A  COMPETITION  OB'    DUDES  AND 
ELDERLY  WIDOWERS  AND  BACHELORS  TO  WAIT  ON  HER." 


f ul  to  see  the  eagerness  of  sacrifice  exhibited  by  these 
young  fellows  to  wheel  her  down  the  long  corridor  to 
her  chamber.  After  all,  it  is  a  kindly,  unselfish  world, 
full  of  tenderness  for  women,  and  especially  for  inva- 
lid women  who  are  pretty.  There  was  all  day  long  a 
competition  of  dudes  and  elderly  widowers  and  bache- 
lors to  wait  on  her.  One  thought  she  needed  a  little 


Their  Pilgrimage.  79 

more  wheeling;  another  volunteered  to  bring  her  a 
glass  of  water;  there  was  always  some  one  to  pick  up 
her  fan,  to  recover  her  handkerchief  (why  is  it  that  the 
fans  and  handkerchiefs  of  ugly  women  seldom  go 
astray?),  to  fetch  her  shawl — was  there  anything  they 
could  do  ?  The  charming  little  heiress  accepted  all  the 
attentions  with  most  engaging  sweetness.  Say  what 
you  will,  men  have  good  hearts. 

Yes,  they  were  going  to  Newport.  King  and  Forbes, 
who  had  not  had  a  Fourth  of  July  for  some  time, 
wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like  at  Newport.  Mr.  De 
Long  would  like  their  company.  But  before  they  went 
the  artist  must  make  one  more  trial  at  a  sketch — must 
get  the  local  color.  It  was  a  large  party  that  went 
one  morning  to  see  it  done  under  the  famous  ledge  of 
rocks  on  the  Red  Path.  It  is  a  fascinating  spot,  with 
its  coolness,  sense  of  seclusion,  mosses,  wild  flowers, 
and  ferns.  In  a  small  grotto  under  the  frowning  wall 
of  the  precipice  is  said  to  be  a  spring,  but  it  is  difticult 
to  find,  and  lovers  need  to  go  a  great  many  times  in 
search  of  it.  People  not  in  love  can  sometimes  find  a 
damp  place  in  the  sand.  The  question  was  where  Miss 
Lamont  should  pose.  Should  she  nestle  under  the 
great  ledge,  or  sit  on  a  projecting  rock  with  her  figure 
against  the  sky?  The  artist  could  not  satisfy  himself, 
and  the  girl,  always  adventurous,  kept  shifting  her 
position,  climbing  about  on  the  jutting  ledge,  until  she 
stood  at  last  on  the  top  of  the  precipice,  which  was  some 
thirty  or  forty  feet  high.  Against  the  top  leaned  a 
dead  balsam,  just  as  some  tempest  had  cast  it,  its  dead 
branches  bleached  and  scraggy.  Down  this  impossible 
ladder  the  girl  announced  her  intention  of  coming. 


ON   THE   RED   PATH. 


"No,  no,"  shouted  a  chorus  of  voices;  "go  round;  it's 
unsafe;  the  limbs  will  break;  you  can't  get  through 
them;  you'll  break  your  neck."  The  girl  stood  cal- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  81 

dilating  the  possibility.  The  more  difficult  the  feat 
seemed,  the  more  she  longed  to  try  it. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  don't  try  it,  Miss  Lamont," 
cried  the  artist. 

"  But  I  want  to.  I  think  I  must.  You  can  sketch 
me  in  the  act.  It  will  be  something  new." 

And  before  any  one  could  interpose,  the  resolute 
girl  caught  hold  of  the  balsam  and  swung  off.  A  boy 
or  a  squirrel  would  have  made  nothing  of  the  feat. 
But  for  a  young  lady  in  long  skirts  to  make  her  way 
down  that  balsam,  squirming  about  and  through  the 
stubs  and  dead  limbs,  testing  each  one  before  she 
trusted  her  weight  to  it,  was  another  affair.  It  needed 
a  very  cool  head  and  the  skill  of  a  gymnast.  To  trans- 
fer her  hold  from  one  limb  to  another,  and  work  down- 
ward, keeping  her  skirts  neatly  gathered  about  her 
feet,  was  an  achievement  that  the  spectators  could  ap- 
preciate; the  presence  of  spectators  made  it  much 
more  difficult.  And  the  lookers-on  were  a  good  deal 
more  excited  than  the  girl.  The  artist  had  his  book 
ready,  and  when  the  little  figure  was  half-way  down, 
clinging  in  a  position  at  once  artistic  and  painful,  he 
began.  "  Work  fast,"  said  the  girl.  "  It's  hard  hang- 
ing on."  But  the  pencil  wouldn't  work.  The  artist 
made  a  lot  of  wild  marks.  He  would  have  given  the 
world  to  sketch  in  that  exquisite  figure,  but  every  time 
he  cast  his  eye  upward  the  peril  was  so  evident  that 
his  hand  shook.  It  was  no  use.  The  danger  increased 
as  she  descended,  and  with  it  the  excitement  of  the 
spectators.  All  the  young  gentlemen  declared  they 
would  catch  her  if  she  fell,  and  some  of  them  seemed 
to  hope  she  might  drop  into  their  arms.  Swing  off  she 
6 


"THE   DANGER  INCREASED   AS   SHE   DESCENDED." 

certainly  must  when  the  lowest  limb  was  reached. 
But  that  was  ten  feet  above  the  ground  and  the  alight- 
ing-place was  sharp  rock  and  broken  bowlders.  The 
artist  kept  up  a  pretence  of  drawing.  He  felt  every 


Their  Pilgrimage.  83 

movement  of  her  supple  figure  and  the  strain  upon  the 
slender  arms,  but  this  could  not  be  transferred  to  the 
book.  It  was  nervous  work.  The  girl  was  evidently 
getting  weary,  but  not  losing  her  pluck.  The  young 
fellows  were  very  anxious  that  the  artist  should  keep 
at  his  work;  they  would  catch  her.  There  was  a  pause; 
the  girl  had  come  to  the  last  limb;  she  was  warily 
meditating  a  slide  or  a  leap ;  the  young  men  were  quite 
ready  to  sacrifice  themselves;  but  somehow,  no  one 
could  tell  exactly  how,  the  girl  swung  low,  held  her- 
self suspended  by  her  hands  for  an  instant,  and  then 
dropped  into  the  right  place — trust  a  woman  for  that; 
and  the  artist,  his  face  flushed,  set  her  down  upon 
the  nearest  flat  rock.  Chorus  from  the  party,  "  She  is 
saved!" 

"  And  my  sketch  is  gone  up  again." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Forbes."  The  girl  looked  full  of 
innocent  regret.  "  But  when  I  was  up  there  I  had  to 
come  down  that  tree.  I  couldn't  help  it,  really." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

the   Fourth    of   July,  at    five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  port- 
ers  called   the   sleepers   out  of 
their  berths  at  Wickford  Junc- 
tion.    Modern    civilization   off- 
ers   no    such    test    to   the 
temper  and  to  personal  ap- 
pearance as  this  early  prep- 
aration   to    meet    the    in- 
spection of  society  after  a 
night  in  the  stuffy  and  lux- 
uriously upholstered  tombs 
of  a  sleeping-car.     To  get 
into  them  at  night  one  must 
sacrifice  dignity;  to  get  out 

of  them  in  the  morning,  clad  for  the  day,  gives  the 
proprieties  a  hard  rub.  It  is  wonderful,  however,  con- 
sidering the  twisting  and  scrambling  in  the  berth  and 
the  miscellaneous  and  ludicrous  presentation  of  human- 
ity in  the  washroom  at  the  end  of  the  car,  how  pre- 
sentable people  make  themselves  in  a  short  space  of 
time.  One  realizes  the  debt  of  the  ordinary  man  to 
clothes,  and  how  fortunate  it  is  for  society  that  com- 
monly people  do  not  see  each  other  in  the  morning 
until  art  has  done  its  best  for  them.  To  meet  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  85 

public  eye,  cross  and  tousled  and  disarranged,  requires 
either  indifference  or  courage.  It  is  disenchanting  to 
some  of  our  cherished  ideals.  Even  the  trig,  irre- 
proachable commercial  drummer  actually  looks  banged- 
up  and  nothing  of  a  man;  but  after  a  few  moments, 
boot-blacked  and  paper-collared,  he  comes  out  as  fresh 
as  a  daisy,  and  all  ready  to  drum. 

Our  travellers  came  out  quite  as  well  as  could  be 
expected,  the  artist  sleepy  and  a  trifle  disorganized, 
Mr.  King  in  a  sort  of  facetious  humor  that  is  more 
dangerous  than  grumbling,  Mr.  De  Long  yawning  and 
stretching  and  declaring  that  he  had  not  slept  a  wink, 
while  Marion  alighted  upon  the  platform  unruffled  in 
plumage,  greeting  the  morning  like  a  bird.  There 
were  the  usual  early  loafers  at  the  station,  hands  deep 
in  pockets,  ruminant,  listlessly  observant.  No  matter 
at  what  hour  of  day  or  night  a  train  may  arrive  or  de- 
part at  a  country  station  in  America,  the  loafers  are  so 
invariably  there  in  waiting  that  they  seem  to  be  a  part 
of  our  railway  system.  There  is  something  in  the  life 
and  movement  that  seems  to  satisfy  all  the  desire  for 
activity  they  have. 

Even  the  most  sleepy  tourist  could  not  fail  to  be 
impressed  with  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  scene  at 
Wickf ord  Harbor,  where  the  boat  was  taken  for  New- 
port. The  slow  awaking  of  morning  life  scarcely  dis- 
turbed its  tranquillity.  Sky  and  sea  and  land  blended 
in  a  tone  of  refined  gray.  The  shores  were  silvery,  a 
silvery  light  came  out  of  the  east,  streamed  through 
the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  and  lay  molten  and  glow- 
ing on  the  water.  The  steamer's  deck  and  chairs  and 
benches  were  wet  with  dew,  the  noises  in  transferring 


86  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  baggage  and  getting  the  boat  under  way  were  all 
muffled  and  echoed  in  the  surrounding  silence.  The 
sail-boats  that  lay  at  anchor  on  the  still  silver  surface 
sent  down  long  shadows,  and  the  slim  masts  seemed 
driven  down  into  the  water  to  hold  the  boats  in  place. 
The  little  village  was  still  asleep.  It  was  such  a  con- 
trast, the  artist  was  saying  to  Marion,  as  they  leaned 
over  the  taffrail,  to  the  new  raw  villages  in  the  Cat- 
skills.  The  houses  were  large,  and  looked  solid  and 
respectable,  many  of  them  were  shingled  on  the  sides, 
a  spire  peeped  out  over  the  green  trees,  and  the  ham- 
let was  at  once  homelike  and  picturesque.  Refine- 
ment is  the  note  of  the  landscape.  Even  the  old  ware- 
houses dropping  into  the  water,  and  the  decaying  piles 
of  the  wharves,  have  a  certain  grace.  How  graciously 
the  water  makes  into  the  land,  following  the  indenta- 
tions, and  flowing  in  little  streams,  going  in  and  with- 
drawing gently  and  regretfully,  and  how  the  shore 
puts  itself  out  in  low  points,  wooing  the  embrace  of 
the  sea— a  lovely  union.  There  is  no  haze,  but  all 
outlines  are  softened  in  the  silver  light.  It  is  like  a 
dream,  and  there  is  no  disturbance  of  the  repose  when 
a  family  party,  a  woman,  a  child,  and  a  man  come 
down  to  the  shore,  slip  into  a  boat,  and  scull  away  out 
by  the  lighthouse  and  the  rocky  entrance  of  the  har- 
bor, off,  perhaps,  for  a  day's  pleasure.  The  artist  has 
whipped  out  his  sketch-book  to  take  some  outlines  of 
the  view,  and  his  comrade,  looking  that  way,  thinks 
this  group  a  pleasing  part  of  the  scene,  and  notes  how 
the  salt,  dewy  morning  air  has  brought  the  color  into 
the  sensitive  face  of  the  girl.  There  are  not  many 
such  hours  in  a  lifetime,  he  is  also  thinking,  when  nat- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  87 

ure  can  be  seen  in  such  a  charming  mood,  and  for  the 
moment  it  compensates  for  the  night  ride. 

The  party  indulged  this  feeling  when  they  landed, 
still  early,  at  the  Newport  wharf,  and  decided  to  walk 
through  the  old  town  up  to  the  hotel,  perfectly  well 
aware  that  after  this  no  money  would  hire  them  to 
leave  their  beds  and  enjoy  this  novel  sensation  at  such 
an  hour.  They  had  the  street  to  themselves,  and  the 
promenade  was  one  of  discovery,  and  had  much  the 
interest  of  a  landing  in  a  foreign  city. 

"  It  is  so  English,"  said  the  artist. 

"  It  is  so  colonial,"  said  Mr.  King,  "  though  I've  no 
doubt  that  any  one  of  the  sleeping  occupants  of  these 
houses  would  be  wide-awake  instantly,  and  come  out 
and  ask  you  to  breakfast,  if  they  heard  you  say  it  is  so 
English." 

"If  they  were  not  restrained,"  Marion  suggested, 
"by  the  feeling  that  that  would  not  be  English. 
How  fine  the  shade  trees,  and  what  brilliant  banks  of 
flowers!" 

"And  such  lawns!  We  cannot  make  this  turf  in 
Virginia,"  was  the  reflection  of  Mr.  De  Long. 

"  Well,  colonial  if  you  like,"  the  artist  replied  to 
Mr.  King.  "  What  is  best  is  in  the  colonial  style;  but 
you  notice  that  all  the  new  houses  are  built  'to  look 
old,  and  that  they  have  had  Queen  Anne  pretty  bad, 
though  the  colors  are  good." 

"That's  the  way  with  some  towns.  Queen  Anne 
seems  to  strike  them  all  of  a  sudden,  and  become  epi- 
demic. The  only  way  to  prevent  it  is  to  vaccinate,  so 
to  speak,  with  two  or  three  houses,  and  wait;  then  it 
is  not  so  likely  to  spread." 


88 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


Laughing  and  criticising  and  admiring,  the  party 
strolled  along  the  shaded  avenue  to  the  Ocean  House. 
There  were  as  yet  no  signs  of  life  at  the  Club,  or  the 
Library,  or  the  Casino;  but  the  shops  were  getting 
open,  and  the  richness  and  elegance  of  the  goods  dis- 
played in  the  windows  were  the  best  evidence  of  the 
wealth  and  refinement  of  the  expected  customers — 


AT   THE  CASINO,    NEWPORT. 

culture  and  taste  always  show  themselves  in  the  shops 
of  a  town.  The  long  gray -brown  front  of  the  Casino, 
with  its  shingled  sides  and  hooded  balconies  and  gal- 
leries, added  to  the  already  strong  foreign  impression 
of  the  place.  But  the  artist  was  dissatisfied.  It  was 
not  at  all  his  idea  of  Independence  Day;  it  was  like 
Sunday,  and  Sunday  without  any  foreign  gayety.  He 
had  expected  firing  of  cannon  and  ringing  of  bells — 


Their  Pilgrimage.  89 

there  was  not  even  a  flag  out  anywhere;  the  celebration 
of  the  Fourth  seemed  to  have  shrunk  into  a  dull  and 
decorous  avoidance  of  all  excitement.  "  Perhaps,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Lament,  "if  the  New-Englanders  keep 
the  Fourth  of  July  like  Sunday,  they  will  by  and  by 
keep  Sunday  like  the  Fourth  of  July.  I  hear  it  is  the 
day  for  excursions  on  this  coast." 

Mr.  King  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  in  going  to 
a  hotel  in  Newport  he  was  putting  himself  out  of  the 
pale  of  the  best  society;  but  he  had  a  fancy  for  view- 
ing this  society  from  the  outside,  having  often  enough 
seen  it  from  the  inside.  And  perhaps  he  had  other 
reasons  for  this  eccentric  conduct.  He  had,  at  any 
rate,  declined  the  invitation  of  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett Glow,  to  her  cottage  on  the  Point  of  Rocks.  It 
was  not  without  regret  that  he  did  this,  for  his  cousin 
was  a  very  charming  woman,  and  devoted  exclusively 
to  the  most  exclusive  social  life.  Her  husband  had 
been  something  in  the  oil  line  in  New  York,  and  King 
had  watched  with  interest  his  evolution  from  the  busi- 
ness man  into  the  full-blown  existence  of  a  man  of 
fashion.  The  process  is  perfectly  charted.  Success  in 
business,  membership  in  a  good  club,  tandem  in  the 
Park,  introduction  to  a  good  house,  marriage  to  a 
pretty  girl  of  family  and  not  much  money,  a  yacht,  a 
four-in-hand,  a  Newport  villa.  His  name  had  under- 
gone a  like  evolution.  It  used  to  be  written  on  his 
business  card,  Jacob  B.  Glow.  It  was  entered  at  the 
club  as  J.  Bartlett  Glow.  On  the  wedding  invitations 
it  was  Mr.  Bartlett  Glow,  and  the  dashing  pair  were 
always  spoken  of  at  Newport  as  the  Bartlett-Glows. 

When  Mr.  King  descended  from  his  room  at  the 


90  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Ocean  House,  although  it  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock,  he 
was  not  surprised  to  see  Mr.  Benson  tilted  back  in  one 
of  the  chairs  on  the  long  piazza,  out  of  the  way  of  the 
scrubbers,  with  his  air  of  patient  waiting  and  observa- 
tion. Irene  used  to  say  that  her  father  ought  to  write 
a  book — "  Life  as  Seen  from  Hotel  Piazzas."  His  only 
idea  of  recreation  when  away  from  business  seemed  to 
be  sitting  about  on  them. 

"  The  women-folks,"  he  explained  to  Mr.  King,  who 
took  a  chair  beside  him, "  won't  be  down  for  an  hour 
yet.  I  like,  myself,  to  see  the  show  open." 

"  Are  there  many  people  here  ?" 

"  I  guess  the  house  is  full  enough.  But  I  can't  find 
out  that  anybody  is  actually  stopping  here,  except 
ourselves  and  a  lot  of  schoolmarms  come  to  attend  a 
convention.  They  seem  to  enjoy  it.  The  rest,  those 
I've  talked  with,  just  happen  to  be  here  for  a  day  or 
so,  never  have  been  to  a  hotel  in  Newport  before,  al- 
ways stayed  in  a  cottage,  merely  put  up  here  now  to 
visit  friends  in  cottages.  You'll  see  that  none  of  them 
act  like  they  belonged  to  the  hotel.  Folks  are  queer. 
At  a  place  we  were  last  summer  all  the  summer  board- 
ers, in  boarding-houses  round,  tried  to  act  like  they 
were  staying  at  the  big  hotel,  and  the  hotel  people 
swelled  about  on  the  fact  of  being  at  a  hotel.  Here 
you're  nobody.  I  hired  a  carriage  by  the  week,  driver 
in  buttons,  and  all  that.  It  don't  make  any  difference. 
I'll  bet  a  gold  dollar  every  cottager  knows  it's  hired, 
and  probably  they  think  by  the  drive." 

"  It's  rather  stupid,  then,  for  you  and  the  ladies." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  It's  the  nicest  place  in  America: 
such  grass,  such  horses,  such  women,  and  the  drive 


Their  Pilgrimage.  91 

round  the  island — there's  nothing  like  it  in  the  coun- 
try. We  take  it  every  day.  Yes,  it  would  be  a  little 
lonesome  but  for  the  ocean.  It's  a  good  deal  like  a 
funeral  procession,  nobody  ever  recognizes  you,  not 
even  the  hotel  people  who  are  in  hired  hacks.  If  I 
were  to  come  again,  Mr.  King,  I'd  come  in  a  yacht, 
drive  up  from  it  in  a  box  on  two  wheels,  with  a  man 
clinging  on  behind  with  his  back  to  me,  and  have  a 
cottage  with  an  English  gardener.  That  would  fetch 
'em.  Money  won't  do  it,  not  at  a  hotel.  But  I'm  not 
sure  but  I  like  this  way  best.  It's  an  occupation  for 
a  man  to  keep  up  a  cottage." 

"  And  so  you  do  not  find  it  dull  ?" 

"  No.  When  we  aren't  out  riding,  she  and  Irene  go 
on  to  the  cliffs,  and  I  sit  here  and  talk  real  estate.  It's 
about  all  there  is  to  talk  of." 

There  was  an  awkward  moment  or  two  when  the 
two  parties  met  in  the  lobby  and  were  introduced  be- 
fore going  into  breakfast.  There  was  a  little  putting 
up  of  guards  on  the  part  of  the  ladies.  Between  Irene 
and  Marion  passed  that  rapid  glance  of  inspection, 
that  one  glance  which  includes  a  study  and  the  pass- 
ing of  judgment  upon  family,  manners,  and  dress, 
down  to  the  least  detail.  It  seemed  to  be  satisfactory, 
for  after  a  few  words  of  civility  the  two  girls  walked 
in  together,  Irene  a  little  dignified,  to  be  sure,  and 
Marion  with  her  wistful,  half-inquisitive  expression. 
Mr.  King  could  not  be  mistaken  in  thinking  Irene's 
manner  a  little  constrained  and  distant  to  him,  and 
less  cordial  than  it  was  to  Mr.  Forbes,  but  the  mother 
righted  the  family  balance. 

"  I'm  right  glad  you've  come,  Mr.  King.     It's  like 


92  Their  Pilgrimage. 

seeing  somebody  from  home.  I  told  Irene  that  when 
you  came  I  guess  we  should  know  somebody.  It's  an 
awful  fashionable  place." 

"  And  you  have  no  acquaintances  here  ?" 

"No,  not  really.  There's  Mrs.  Peabody  has  a  cot- 
tage here,  what  they  call  a  cottage,  but  there's  no  such 
house  in  Cyrusville.  We  drove  past  it.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  to  school  with  Irene.  We've  met  'em  out 
riding  several  times,  and  Sally  (Miss  Peabody)  bowed 
to  Irene,  and  pa  and  I  bowed,  to  everybody,  but  they 
haven't  called.  Pa  says  it's  because  we  are  at  a  hotel, 
but  I  guess  it's  been  company  or  something.  They 
were  real  good  friends  at  school." 

Mr.  King  laughed.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Benson,  the  Pea- 
bodys  were  nobodys  only  a  few  years  ago.  I  remem- 
ber when  they  used  to  stay  at  one  of  the  smaller  ho- 
tels." 

"  Well,  they  seem  nice,  stylish  people,  and  I'm  sorry 
on  Irene's  account." 

At  breakfast  the  party  had  topics  enough  in  com- 
mon to  make  conversation  lively.  The  artist  was 
sure  he  should  be  delighted  with  the  beauty  and  finish 
of  Newport.  Miss  Lamont  doubted  if  she  should  en- 
joy it  as  much  as  the  freedom  and  freshness  of  the 
Catskills.  Mr.  King  amused  himself  with  drawing 
out  Miss  Benson  on  the  contrast  with  Atlantic  City. 
The  dining-room  was  full  of  members  of  the  Institute, 
in  attendance  upon  the  annual  meeting,  gray-bearded, 
long-faced  educators,  devotees  of  theories  and  systems, 
known  at  a  glance  by  a  certain  earnestness  of  manner 
and  intensity  of  expression,  middle-aged  women  of  a 
resolute,  intellectual  countenance,  and  a  great  crowd 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


93 


of  youthful  schoolmistresses,  just  on  the  dividing  line 
between  domestic  life  and  self-sacrifice,  still  full  of 
sentiment,  and  still  leaning  perhaps  more  to  Tennyson 
and  Lowell  than  to  mathematics  and  Old  English. 

"  They  have  a  curious,  mingled  air  of  primness  and 
gayety,  as  if  gayety  were  not  quite  proper,"  the  artist 
began.  "  Some  of  them  look  downright  interesting, 
and  I've  no  doubt  they  are  all  excellent  women." 


"  I've  no  doubt  they  are  all  good  as  gold,"  put  in 
Mr.  King.  "  These  women  are  the  salt  of  New  Eng- 
land." (Irene  looked  up  quickly  and  appreciatively  at 
the  speaker.)  "  No  fashionable  nonsense  about  them. 
What's  in  you,  Forbes,  to  shy  so  at  a  good  woman  ?" 

"  I  don't  shy  at  a  good  woman — but  three  hundred 
of  them!  I  don't  want  all  my  salt  in  one  place.  And 
see  here — I  appeal  to  you,  Miss  Lamont — why  didn't 


94:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

these  girls  dress  simply,  as  they  do  at  home,  and  not 
attempt  a  sort  of  ill-fitting  finery  that  is  in  greater 
contrast  to  Newport  than  simplicity  would  be  ?" 

"If  you  were  a  woman,"  said  Marion,  looking  de- 
murely, not  at  Mr.  Forbes,  but  at  Irene,  "  I  could  ex- 
plain it  to  you.  You  don't  allow  anything  for  senti- 
ment and  the  natural  desire  to  please,  and  it  ought  to 
be  just  pathetic  to  you  that  these  girls,  obeying  a  nat- 
ural instinct,  missed  the  expression  of  it  a  little." 

"  Men  are  such  critics,"  and  Irene  addressed  the  re- 
mark to  Marion,  "they  pretend  to  like  intellectual 
women,  but  they  can  pardon  anything  better  than 
an  ill-fitting  gown.  Better  be  frivolous  than  badly 
dressed." 

"  Well,"  stoutly  insisted  Forbes,  "  I'll  take  my  chance 
with  the  well-dressed  ones  always;  I  don't  believe  the 
frumpy  are  the  most  sensible." 

"No;  but  you  make  out  a prima  facie  case  against 
a  woman  for  want  of  taste  in  dress,  just  as  you  jump 
at  the  conclusion  that  because  a  woman  dresses  in 
such  a  way  as  to  show  she  gives  her  mind  to  it  she 
is  of  the  right  sort.  I  think  it's  a  relief  to  see  a 
convention  of  women  devoted  to  other  things  who  are 
not  thinking  of  their  clothes." 

"Pardon  me;  the  point  I  made  was  that  they  are 
thinking  of  their  clothes,  and  thinking  erroneously." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  leave  to  read  a  paper,  Forbes, 
on  the  relation  of  dress  to'  education  ?"  asked  Mr. 
King. 

They  rose  from  the  table  just  as  Mrs.  Benson  was 
saying  that  for  her  part  she  liked  these  girls,  they  were 
so  homelike  ;  she  loved  to  hear  them  sing  college 


Their  Pilgrimage.  95 

songs  and  hymns  in  the  parlor.  To  sing  the  songs  of 
the  students  is  a  wild,  reckless  dissipation  for  girls  in 
the  country. 

When  Mr.  King  and  Irene  walked  up  and  down  the 
corridor  after  breakfast  the  girl's  constraint  seemed  to 
have  vanished,  and  she  let  it  be  seen  that  she  had  sin- 
cere pleasure  in  renewing  the  acquaintance.  King 
himself  began  to  realize  how  large  a  place  the  girl's 
image  had  occupied  in  his  mind.  He  was  not  in  love 
— that  would  be  absurd  on  such  short  acquaintance — 
but  a  thought  dropped  into  the  mind  ripens  without 
consciousness,  and  he  found  that  he  had  anticipated 
seeing  Irene  again  with  decided  interest.  He  remem- 
bered exactly  how  she  looked  at  Fortress  Monroe,  es- 
pecially one  day  when  she  entered  the  parlor,  bowing 
right  and  left  to  persons  she  knew,  stopping  to  chat 
with  one  and  another,  tall,  slender  waist  swelling  up- 
wards in  symmetrical  lines,  brown  hair,  dark-gray  eyes 
— he  recalled  every  detail,  the  high-bred  air  (which 
was  certainly  not  inherited),  the  unconscious  perfect 
carriage,  and  his  thinking  in  a  vague  way  that  such 
ease  and  grace  meant  good  living  and  leisure  and  a 
sound  body.  This,  at  any  rate,  was  the  image  in  his 
mind — a  sufficiently  distracting  thing  for  a  young  man 
to  carry  about  with  him;  and  now  as  he  walked  be- 
side her  he  was  conscious  that  there  was  something 
much  finer  in  her  than  the  image  he  had  carried  with 
him,  that  there  was  a  charm  of  speech  and  voice  and 
expression  that  made  her  different  from  any  other 
woman  he  had  ever  seen.  Who  can  define  this  charm, 
this  difference  ?  Some  women  have  it  for  the  uni- 
versal man — they  are  desired  of  every  man  who  sees 


96  Their  Pilgrimage. 

them;  their  way  to  marriage  (which  is  commonly  un- 
fortunate) is  over  a  causeway  of  prostrate  forms,  if  not 
of  cracked  hearts  ;  a  few  such  women  light  up  and 
make  the  romance  of  history.  The  majority  of  wom- 
en fortunately  have  it  for  one  man  only,  and  some- 
times he  never  appears  on  the  scene  at  all!  Yet  every 
man  thinks  his  choice  belongs  to  the  first  class;  even 
King  began  to  wonder  that  all  Newport  was  not  rav- 
ing over  Irene's  beauty.  The  present  writer  saw  her 
one  day  as  she  alighted  from  a  carriage  at  the  Ocean 
House,  her  face  flushed  with  the  sea  air,  and  he  re- 
members that  he  thought  her  a  fine  girl.  "By  George, 
that's  a  fine  woman!"  exclaimed  a  New  York  bache- 
lor, who  prided  himself  on  knowing  horses  and  women 
and  all  that;  but  the  country  is  full  of  fine  women — 
this  to  him  was  only  one  of  a  thousand. 

What  were  this  couple  talking  about  as  they  prom- 
enaded, basking  in  each  other's  presence  ?  It  does  not 
matter.  They  were  getting  to  know  each  other,  quite 
as  much  by  what  they  did  not  say  as  by  what  they 
did  say,  by  the  thousand  little  exchanges  of  feeling 
and  sentiment  which  are  all-important,  and  never  ap- 
pear even  in  a  stenographer's  report  of  a  conversation. 
Only  one  thing  is  certain  about  it,  that  the  girl  could 
recall  every  word  that  Mr.  King  said,  even  his  accent 
and  look,  long  after  he  had  forgotten  even  the  theme  of 
the  talk.  One  thing,  however,  he  did  carry  away  with 
him,  which  set  him  thinking.  The  girl  had  been  read- 
ing the  "  Life  of  Carlyle,"  and  she  took  up  the  cudgels 
for  the  old  curmudgeon,  as  King  called  him,  and  de- 
clared that,  when  all  was  said,  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  hap- 
pier with  him  than  she  would  have  been  with  any 


Their  Pilgrimage.  97 

other  man  in  England.  "What  woman  of  spirit 
wouldn't  rather  mate  with  an  eagle,  and  quarrel  half 
the  time,  than  with  a  humdrum  barn-yard  fowl?" 
And  Mr.  Stanhope  King,  when  he  went  away,  reflect- 
ed that  he  who  had  fitted  himself  for  the  bar,  and 
travelled  extensively,  and  had  a  moderate  competence, 
hadn't  settled  down  to  any  sort  of  career.  He  had  al- 
ways an  intention  of  doing  something  in  a  vague  way; 
but  now  the  thought  that  he  was  idle  made  him  for  the 
first  time  decidedly  uneasy,  for  he  had  an  indistinct 
notion  that  Irene  couldn't  approve  of. such  a  life. 

This  feeling  haunted  him  as  he  was  making  a  round 
of  calls  that  day.  He  did  not  return  to  lunch  or  din- 
ner— if  he  had  done  so  he  would  have  found  that  lunch 
was  dinner  and  that  dinner  was  supper — another  vital 
distinction  between  the  hotel  and  the  cottage.  The 
rest  of  the  party  had  gone  to  the  cliffs  with  the  artist, 
the  girls  on  a  pretence  of  learning  to  sketch  from  natr 
lire.  Mr.  King  dined  with  his  cousin. 

"You  are  a  bad  boy,  Stanhope,"  was  the  greeting 
of  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow,  "  not  to  come  to  me.  Why 
did  you  go  to  the  hotel  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  thought  I'd  see  life;  I  had  an  unaccountable 
feeling  of  independence.  Besides,  I've  a  friend  with 
me,  a  very  clever  artist,  who  is  re-seeing  his  country 
after  an  absence  of  some  years.  And  there  are  some 
other  people." 

"  Oh,  yes.     What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Why,  there  is  quite  a  party.     We  met  them  at 

different  places.     There's  a  very  bright  New  York 

girl,  Miss  Lamont,  and  her  uncle  from  Richmond." 

("Never  heard    of    her,"  interpolated   Mrs.  Glow.) 

7 


98  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  And  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benson  and  their  daughter,  from 
Ohio.  Mr.  Benson  has  made  money ;  Mrs.  Benson, 
good-hearted  old  lady,  rather  plain  and — ' 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  sort;  had  a  falling-out  with  Lind- 
ley  Murray  in  her  youth  and  never  made  it  up.  But 
what  I  want  to  know  is  about  the  girl.  What  makes 
you  beat  about  the  bush  so  ?  What's  her  name  ?" 

"Irene.  She  is  an  uncommonly  clever  girl;  edu- 
cated; been  abroad  a  good  deal,  studying  in  Germany; 
had  all  advantages;  and  she  has  cultivated  tastes;  and 
the  fact  is  that  out  in  Cyrusville — that  is  where  they 
live —  You  know  how  it  is  here  in  America  when  the 
girl  is  educated  and  the  old  people  are  not — " 

"  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  you  want  me  to  invite 
them  here.  I  suppose  the  girl  is  plain  too — takes  after 
her  mother  ?" 

"  Not  exactly.  Mr.  Forbes — that's  my  friend — says 
she's  a  beauty.  But  if  you  don't  mind,  Penelope,  I 
was  going  to  ask  you  to  be  a  little  civil  to  them." 

"Well,  I'll  admit  she  is  handsome — a  very  striking- 
looking  girl.  I've  seen  them  driving  on  the  Avenue 
day  after  day.  Now,  Stanhope,  I  don't  mind  asking 
them  here  to  a  five  o'clock;  I  suppose  the  mother  will 
have  to  come.  If  she  was  staying  with  somebody 
here  it  would  be  easier.  Yes,  I'll  do  it  to  oblige  you, 
if  you  will  make  yourself  useful  while  you  are  here. 
There  are  some  girls  I  want  you  to  know,  and  mind, 
my  young  friend,  that  you  don't  go  and  fall  in  love 
with  a  country  girl  whom  nobody  knows,  out  of  the 
set.  It  won't  be  comfortable." 

"  You  are  always  giving  me  good  advice,  Penelope, 
and  I  should  be  a  different  man  if  I  had  profited  by  it." 


Their  Pilgrimage.  99 

"  Don't  be  satirical,  because  you've  coaxed  me  to  do 
you  a  favor." 

Late  in  the  evening  the  gentlemen  of  the  hotel  party 
looked  in  at  the  skating-rink,  a  great  American  institu- 
tion that  has  for  a  large  class  taken  the  place  of  the 
ball,  the  social  circle,  the  evening  meeting.  It  seemed 
a  little  incongruous  to  find  a  great  rink  at  Newport, 
but  an  epidemic  is  stronger  than  fashion,  and  even 
the  most  exclusive  summer  resort  must  have  its  rink. 
Roller-skating  is  said  to  be  fine  exercise,  but  the  bene- 
fit of  it  as  exercise  would  cease  to  be  apparent  if  there 
were  a  separate  rink  for  each  sex.  There  is  a  certain 
exhilaration  in  the  lights  and  music  and  the  lively 
crowd,  and  always  an  attraction  in  the  freedom  of  in- 
tercourse offered.  The  rink  has  its  world  as  the  opera 
has,  its  romances  and  its  heroes.  The  frequenters  of 
the  rink  know  the  young  women  and  the  young  men 
who  have  a  national  reputation  as  adepts,  and  their 
exhibitions  are  advertised  and  talked  about  as  are  the 
appearances  of  celebrated  prime  donne  and  tenori  at 
the  opera.  The  visitors  had  an  opportunity  to  see  one 
of  these  exhibitions.  After  a  weary  watching  of  the 
monotonous  and  clattering  round  and  round  of  the 
swinging  couples  or  the  stumbling  single  skaters,  the 
floor  was  cleared,  and  the  darling  of  the  rink  glided 
upon  the  scene.  He  was  a  slender,  handsome  fellow, 
graceful  and  expert  to  the  nicest  perfection  in  his  pro- 
fession. He  seemed  not  so  much  to  skate  as  to  float 
about  the  floor,  with  no  effort  except  volition.  His 
rhythmic  movements  were  followed  with  pleasure,  but 
it  was  his  feats  of  dexterity,  which  were  more  wonder- 
ful than  graceful,  that  brought  down  the  house.  It 


100  Their  Pilgrimage. 

was  evident  that  he  was  a  hero  to  the  female  part  of 
the  spectators,  and  no  doubt  his  charming  image  con- 
tinued to  float  round  and  round  in  the  brain  of  many 
a  girl  when  she  put  her  head  on  the  pillow  that  night. 
It  is  *  said  that  a  good  many  matches  which  are  not 
projected  or  registered  in  heaven  are  made  at  the 
rink. 

At  the  breakfast-table  it  appeared  that  the  sketch- 
ing-party had  been  a  great  success — for  everybody  ex- 
cept the  artist,  who  had  only  some  rough  memoranda, 
like  notes  for  a  speech,  to  show.  The  amateurs  had 
made  finished  pictures. 

Miss  Benson  had  done  some  rocks,  and  had  got  their 
hardness  very  well.  Miss  Lamont's  effort  was  more 
ambitious;  her  picture  took  in  no  less  than  miles  of 
coast,  as  much  sea  as  there  was  room  for  on  the  paper, 
a  navy  of  sail-boats,  and  all  the  rocks  and  figures  that 
were  in  the  foreground,  and  it  was  done  with  a  great 
deal  of  naivete  and  conscientiousness.  When  it  was 
passed  round  the  table,  the  comments  were  very  flat- 
tering. 

"  It  looks  just  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  It's  very  comprehensive,"  remarked  Mr.  Forbes. 

"  What  I  like,  Marion,"  said  Mr.  De  Long,  holding 
it  out  at  arm's-length,  "is  the  perspective;  it  isn't  an 
easy  thing  to  put  ships  up  in  the  sky." 

"  Of  course,"  explained  Irene,  "  it  was  a  kind  of 
hazy  day." 

"  But  I  think  Miss  Lamont  deserves  credit  for  keep- 
ing the  haze  out  of  it."  King  was  critically  examin- 
ing it,  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side.  "  I  like  it; 
but  I  tell  you  what  I  think  it  lacks;  it  lacks  atmos- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  101 

phere.  Why  don't  you  cut  a  hole  in  it,  Miss  Lamont, 
and  let  the  air  in  ?" 

"  Mr.  King,"  replied  Miss  Lamont,  quite  seriously, 
"  you  are  a  real  friend,  I  can  only  repay  you  by  taking 
you  to  church  this  morning." 

"You  didn't  make  much  that  time,  King,"  said 
Forbes,  as  he  lounged  out  of  the  room. 

After  church  King  accepted  a  seat  in  the  Benson 
carriage  for  a  drive  on  the  Ocean  Road.  He  who 
takes  this  drive  for  the  first  time  is  'enchanted  with 
the  scene,  and  it  has  so  much  variety,  deliciousness  in 
curve  and  winding,  such  graciousness  in  the  union  of 
sea  and  shore,  such  charm  of  color,  that  increased  ac- 
quaintance only  makes  one  more  in  love  with  it.  A 
good  part  of  its  attraction  lies  in  the  fickleness  of  its 
aspect.  Its  serene  and  soft  appearance  might  pall  if 
it  were  not  now  and  then,  and  often  suddenly,  and 
with  little  warning,  transformed  into  a  wild  coast, 
swept  by  a  tearing  wind,  enveloped  in  a  thick  fog, 
roaring  with  the  noise  of  the  angry  sea  slapping  the 
rocks  and  breaking  in  foam  on  the  fragments  its  rage 
has  cast  down.  This  elementary  mystery  and  terror 
is  always  present  with  one  familiar  with  the  coast,  to 
qualify  the  gentleness  of  its  lovelier  aspects.  It  has 
all  moods.  Perhaps  the  most  exhilarating  is  that  on  a 
brilliant  day,  when  shore  and  sea  sparkle  in  the  sun, 
and  the  waves  leap  high  above  the  cliffs,  and  fall  in 
diamond  showers. 

This  Sunday  the  shore  was  in  its  most  gracious 
mood,  the  landscape  as  if  newly  created.  There  was 
a  light,  luminous  fog,  which  revealed  just  enough  to 
excite  the  imagination,  and  refined  every  outline  and 


102  Their  Pilgrimage. 

softened  every  color.  Mr.  King  and  Irene  left  the 
carriage  to  follow  the  road,  and  wandered  along  the 
sea  path.  What  softness  and  tenderness  of  color  in 
the  gray  rocks,  with  the  browns  and  reds  of  the  vines 
and  lichens!  They  went  out  on  the  iron  fishing-stands, 
and  looked  down  at  the  shallow  water.  The  rocks 
under  water  took  on  the  most  exquisite  shades — purple 
and  malachite  and  brown;  the  barnacles  clung  to  them; 
the  long  sea-weeds,  in  half  a  dozen  varieties,  some  in 
vivid  colors,  swept  over  them,  flowing  with  the  rest- 
less tide,  like  the  long  locks  of  a  drowned  woman's 
hair.  King,  who  had  dabbled  a  little  in  natural  his- 
tory, took  great  delight  in  pointing  out  to  Irene  this 
varied  and  beautiful  life  of  the  sea;  and  the  girl  felt 
a  new  interest  in  science,  for  it  was  all  pure  science, 
and  she  opened  her  heart  to  it,  not  knowing  that  love 
can  go  in  by  the  door  of  science  as  well  as  by  any 
other  opening.  Was  Irene  really  enraptured  by  the 
dear  little  barnacles  and  the  exquisite  sea-weeds?  I 
have  seen  a  girl  all  of  a  flutter  with  pleasure  in  a  labo- 
ratory when  a  young  chemist  was  showing  her  the  re- 
torts and  the  crooked  tubes  and  the  glass  wool  and  the 
freaks  of  color  which  the  alkalies  played  with  the 
acids.  God  has  made  them  so,  these  women,  and  let 
us  be  thankful  for  it. 

What  a  charm  there  was  about  everything!  Oc- 
casionally the  mist  became  so  thin  that  a  long  line  of 
coast  and  a  great  breadth  of  sea  were  visible,  with  the 
white  sails  drifting. 

"  There's  nothing  like  it,"  said  King — "  there's  noth- 
ing like  this  island.  It  seems  as  if  the  Creator  had 
determined  to  show  man,  once  for  all,  a  landscape  per- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  103 

fectly  refined,  you  might  almost  say  with  the  beauty 
of  high-breeding,  refined  in  outline,  color,  everything 
softened  into  loveliness,  and  yet  touched  with  the 
wild  quality  of  picturesqueness." 

"  It's  just  a  dream  at  this  moment,"  murmured  Irene. 
They  were  standing  on  a  promontory  of  rock.  "  See 
those  figures  of  people  there  through  the  mist — sil- 
houettes only.  And  look  at  that  vessel — there — no — 
it  has  gone." 

As  she  was  speaking  a  sail-vessel  began  to  loom  up 
large  in  the  mysterious  haze.  But  was  it  not  the  ghost 
of  a  ship?  For  an  instant  it  was  coming,  coming;  it 
was  distinct;  and  when  it  was  plainly  in  sight  it  faded 
away,  like  a  dissolving  view,  and  was  gone.  The  ap- 
pearance was  unreal.  What  made  it  more  spectral 
was  the  bell  on  the  reefs,  swinging  in  its  triangle,  al- 
ways sounding,  and  the  momentary  scream  of  the  fog- 
whistle.  It  was  like  an  enchanted  coast.  Regaining 
the  carriage,  they  drove  out  to  the  end,  Agassiz's 
Point,  where,  when  the  mist  lifted,  they  saw  the  sea 
all  round  dotted  with  sails,  the  irregular  coasts  and 
islands  with  headlands  and  lighthouses,  all  the  picture 
still,  land  and  water  in  a  summer  swoon. 

Late  that  afternoon  all  the  party  were  out  upon  the 
cliff  path  in  front  of  the  cottages.  There  is  no  more 
lovely  sea  stroll  in  the  world,  the  way  winding  over 
the  cliff  edge  by  the  turquoise  sea,  where  the  turf, 
close  cut  and  green  as  Erin,  set  with  flower  beds  and 
dotted  with  noble  trees,  slopes  down,  a  broad  pleasure, 
park,  from  the  stately  and  picturesque  villas.  But  it 
was  a  social  mistake  to  go  there  on  Sunday.  Perhaps 
it  is  not  the  height  of  good  form  to  walk  there  any 


104  Their  Pilgrimage. 

day,  but  Mr.  King  did  not  know  that  the  fashion  had 
changed,  and  that  on  Sunday  this  lovely  promenade 
belongs  to  the  butlers  and  the  upper  maids,  especially 
to  the  butlers,  who  make  it  resplendent  on  Sunday 
afternoons  when  the  weather  is  good.  As  the  weather 
had  thickened  in  the  late  afternoon,  our  party  walked 
in  a  dumb-show,  listening  to  the  soft  swish  of  the 
waves  on  the  rocks  below,  and  watching  the  figures  of 
other  promenaders,  who  were  good  enough  ladies  and 
gentleman  in  this  friendly  mist. 

The  next  day  Mr.  King  made  a  worse  mistake.  He 
remembered  that  at  high  noon  everybody  went  down 
to  the  first  beach,  a  charming  sheltered  place  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bay,  where  the  rollers  tumble  in  finely 
from  the  south,  to  bathe  or  see  others  bathe.  The 
beach  used  to  be  lined  with  carriages  at  that  hour,  and 
the  surf,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  presented  the  appear- 
ance of  a  line  of  picturesquely  clad  skirmishers  going 
out  to  battle  with  the  surf.  To-day  there  were  not 
half  a  dozen  carriages  and  omnibuses  altogether,  and 
the  bathers  were  few — nursery-maids^  fragments  of  a 
day-excursion,  and  some  of  the  fair  conventionists. 
Newport  was  not  there.  Mr.  King  had  led  his  party 
into  another  social  blunder.  It  has  ceased  to  be  fash- 
ionable to  bathe  at  Newport.  Strangers  and  servants 
may  do  so,  but  the  cottagers  have  withdrawn  their 
support  from  the  ocean.  Salt-water  may  be  carried  to 
the  house  and  used  without  loss  of  caste,  but  bathing 
in  the  surf  is  vulgar.  A  gentleman  may  go  down  and 
take  a  dip  alone — it  had  better  be  at  an  early  hour — 
and  the  ladies  of  the  house  may  be  heard  to  apologize 
for  his  eccentricity,  as  if  his  fondness  for  the  water 


Their  Pilgrimage.  105 

were  abnormal  and  quite  out  of  experience.  And  the 
observer  is  obliged  to  admit  that  promiscuous  bathing 
is  vulgar,  as  it  is  plain  enough  to  be  seen  when  it  be- 
comes unfashionable.  It  is  charitable  to  think  also 
that  the  cottagers  have  made  it  unfashionable  because 
it  is  vulgar,  and  not  because  it  is  a  cheap  and  refresh- 
ing pleasure  accessible  to  everybody. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  King's  ideas  of  Newport  were  up- 
set. "  It's  a  little  off  color  to  walk  much  on  the  cliffs; 
you  lose  caste  if  you  bathe  in  the  surf.  What  can 
you  do?" 

"  Oh,"  explained  Miss  Lamont,  "  you  can  make  calls; 
go  to  teas  and  receptions  and  dinners;  belong  to  the 
Casino,  but  not  appear  there  much;  and  you  must 
drive  on  the  Ocean  Road,  and  look  as  English  as  you 
can.  Didn't  you  notice  that  Redfern  has  an  establish- 
ment on  the  Avenue  ?  Well,  the  London  girls  wear 
what  Redfern  tells  them  to  wear — much  to  the  im- 
provement of  their  appearance — and  so  it  has  become 
possible  for  a  New-Yorker  to  become  partially  English 
without  sacrificing  her  native  taste." 

Before  lunch  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  called  on  the  Ben- 
sons,  and  invited  them  to  a  five-o'clock  tea,  and  Miss 
Lamont,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  parlor,  was  in- 
cluded in  the  invitation.  Mrs.  Glow  was  as  gracious 
as  possible,  and  especially  attentive  to  the  old  lady, 
who  purred  with  pleasure,  and  beamed  and  expanded 
into  familiarity  under  the  encouragement  of  the  wom- 
an of  the  world.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Glow 
had  learned  the  chief  points  in  the  family  history,  the 
state  of  health  and  habits  of  pa  (Mr.  Benson),  and  all 
about  Cyrusville  and  its  wonderful  growth.  In  all 


106  Their  Pilgrimage. 

this  Mrs.  Glow  manifested  a  deep  interest,  and  learned, 
by  observing  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  that  Irene 
was  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  which  she  tried  to 
conceal  under  an  increasing  coolness  of  civility.  "  A 
nice  lady,"  was  Mrs.  Benson's  comment  when  Mrs. 
Glow  had  taken  herself  away  with  her  charmingly- 
scented  air  of  frank  cordiality — "  a  real  nice  lady. 
She  seemed  just  like  our  folks." 

Irene  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  suppose  we  shall  have 
to  go." 

"  Have  to  go,  child  ?  I  should  think  you'd  like  to 
go.  I  never  saw  such  a  girl — never.  Pa  and  me  are 
just  studying  all  the  time  to  please  you,  and  it  seems 
as  if — "  And  the  old  lady's  voice  broke  down. 

"Why,  mother  dear" — and  the  girl,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  leaned  over  her  and  kissed  her  fondly,  and 
stroked  her  hair — "  you  are  just  as  good  and  sweet  as 
you  can  be;  and  don't  mind  me;  you  know  I  get  in 
moods  sometimes." 

The  old  lady  pulled  her  down  and  kissed  her,  and 
looked  in  her  face  with  beseeching  eyes. 

"What  an  old  frump  the  mother  is!"  was  Mrs. 
Glow's  comment  to  Stanhope,  when  she  next  met  him; 
"but  she  is  immensely  amusing." 

"She  is  a  kind-hearted,  motherly  woman,"  replied 
King,  a  little  sharply. 

"  Oh,  motherly!  Has  it  come  to  that?  I  do  believe 
you  are  more  than  half  gone.  The  girl  is  pretty; 
she  has  a  beautiful  figure;  but,  my  gracious  !  her  pa- 
rents are  impossible — just  impossible.  And  don't  you 
think  she's  a  little  too  intellectual  for  society?  I 


108  Their  Pilgrimage. 

don't  mean  too  intellectual,  of  course,  but  too  mental, 
don't  you  know — shows  that  first.  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"But,  Penelope,  I  thought  it  was  the  fashion  now 
to  be  intellectual — go  in  for  reading,  and  literary 
clubs,  Dante  and  Shakespeare,  and  political  economy, 
and  all  that." 

"  Yes.  I  belong  to  three  clubs.  I'm  going  to  one 
to-morrow  morning.  We  are  going  to  take  up  the 
1  Disestablishment  of  the  English  Church.'  That's 
different;  we  make  it  fit  into  social  life  somehow,  and 
it  doesn't  interfere.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Stanhope,  I'll 
take  Miss  Benson  to  the  Town  and  County  Club  next 
Saturday." 

"  That  will  be  too  intellectual  for  Miss  Benson.  I 
suppose  the  topic  will  be  Transcendentalism  ?" 

"No;  we  have  had  that.  Professor  Spor,  of  Cam- 
bridge, is  going  to  lecture  on  Bacteria — if  that's  the 
way  you  pronounce  it — those  mites  that  get  into  every- 
thing." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  very  improving.  I'll 
tell  Miss  Benson  that  if  she  stays  in  Newport  she  must 
improve  her  mind." 

"  You  can  make  yourself  as  disagreeable  as  you  like 
to  me,  but  mind  you  are  on  your  good  behavior  at  din- 
ner to-night,  for  the  Misses  Pelham  will  be  here." 

The  five-o'clock  at  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow's  was  prob- 
ably an  event  to  nobody  in  Newport  except  Mrs.  Ben- 
son. To  most  it  was  only  an  incident  in  the  afternoon 
round  and  drive,  but  everybody  liked  to  go  there,  for 
it  is  one  of  the  most  charming  of  the  moderate-sized 
villas.  The  lawn  is  planted  in  exquisite  taste,  and  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  109 

gardener  has  set  in  the  open  spaces  of  green  the  most 
ingenious  devices  of  flowers  and  foliage  plants,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  enchanting  than  the  view  from 
the  wide  veranda  on  the  sea  side.  In  theory,  the  occu- 
pants lounge  there,  read,  embroider,  and  swing  in  ham- 
mocks; in  point  of  fact,  the  breeze  is  usually  so  strong 
that  these  occupations  are  carried  on  in-doors. 

The  rooms  were  well  filled  with  a  moving,  chatter- 
ing crowd  when  the  Bensons  arrived,  but  it  could  not 
be  said  that  their  entrance  was  unnoticed,  for  Mr.  Ben- 
son was  conspicuous,  as  Irene  had  in  vain  hinted  to  her 
father  that  he  would  be,  in  his  evening  suit,  and  Mrs. 
Benson's  beaming,  extra-gracious  manner  sent  a  little 
shiver  of  amusement  through  the  polite  civility  of  the 
room. 

"  I  was  afraid  we  should  be  too  late,"  was  Mrs.  Ben- 
son's response  to  the  smiling  greeting  of  the^  hostess, 
with  a  most  friendly  look  towards  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany. "  Mr.  Benson  is  always  behindhand  in  getting 
dressed  for  a  party,  and  he  said  he  guessed  the  party 
could  wait,  and — " 

Before  the  sentence  was  finished  Mrs.  Benson  found 
herself  passed  on  and  in  charge  of  a  certain  general, 
who  was  charged  by  the  hostess  to  get  her  a  cup  of 
tea.  Her  talk  went  right  on,  however,  and  Irene,  who 
was  still  standing  by  the  host,  noticed  that  wherever 
her  mother  went  there  was  a  lull  in  the  general  conver- 
sation, a  slight  pause  as  if  to  catch  what  this  motherly 
old  person  might  be  saying,  and  such  phrases  as,  "  It 
doesn't  agree  with  me,  general;  I  can't  eat  it,"  "Yes, 
I  got  the  rheumatiz  in  New  Orleans,  and  he  did  too," 
floated  over  the  hum  of  talk. 


110  Their  Pilgrimage. 

In  the  introduction  and  movement  that  followed 
Irene  became  one  of  a  group  of  young  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen who,  after  the  first  exchange  of  civilities,  went 
on  talking  about  matters  of  which  she  knew  nothing, 
leaving  her  wholly  out  of  the  conversation.  The  mat- 
ters seemed  to  be  very  important,  and  the  conversa- 
tion was  animated:  it  was  about  so-and-so  who  was 
expected,  or  was  or  was  not  engaged,  or  the  last  even- 
ing at  the  Casino,  or  the  new  trap  on  the  Avenue — the 
delightful  little  chit-chat  by  means  of  which  those  who 
are  in  society  exchange  good  understandings,  but  which 
excludes  one  not  in  the  circle.  The  young  gentleman 
next  to  Irene  threw  in  an  explanation  now  and  then, 
but  she  was  becoming  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  She 
could  not  be  unconscious,  either,  that  she  was  the  ob- 
ject of  polite,  transient  scrutiny  by  the  ladies,  and  of 
glances  of  interest  from  gentlemen  who  did  not  ap- 
proach her.  She  began  to  be  annoyed  by  the  staring 
(the  sort  of  stare  that  a  woman  recognizes  as  impu- 
dent admiration)  of  a  young  fellow  who  leaned  against 
the  mantel — a  youth  in  English  clothes  who  had  caught 
very  successfully  the  air  of  an  English  groom.  Two 
girls  near  her,  to  whom  she  had  been  talking,  began 
speaking  in  lowered  voices  in  French,  but  she  could 
not  help  overhearing  them,  and  her  face  flushed  hotly 
when  she  found  that  her  mother  and  her  appearance 
were  the  subject  of  their  foreign  remarks. 

Luckily  at  the  moment  Mr.  King  approached,  and 
Irene  extended  her  hand  and  said,  with  a  laugh, 
"Ah,  monsieur,"  speaking  in  a  very  pretty  Paris 
accent,  and  perhaps  with  unnecessary  distinctness, 
"you  were  quite  right;  the  society  here  is  very  dif- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  Ill 

ferent  from  Cyrusville;  there  they  all  talk  about  each 
other." 

Mr.  King,  who  saw  that  something  had  occurred, 
was  quick-witted  enough  to  reply  jestingly  in  French, 
as  they  moved  away,  but  he  asked,  as  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  ear-shot,  "  What  is  it  ?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  girl,  recovering  her  usual 
serenity.  "  I  only  said  something  for  the  sake  of  say- 
ing something;  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  disrespectfully 
of  my  own  town.  But  isn't  it  singular  how  local  and 
provincial  society  talk  is  everywhere?  I  must  look 
up  mother,  and  then  I  want  you  to  take  me  on  the 
veranda  for  some  air.  What  a  delightful  house  this  is 
of  your  cousin's  !" 

The  two  young  ladies  who  had  dropped  into  French 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  after  Irene  moved 
away,  and  one  of  them  spoke  for  both  when  she  ex- 
claimed: "Did  you  ever  see  such  rudeness  in  a  draw- 
ing-room! Who  could  have  dreamed  that  she  under- 
stood ?"  Mrs.  Benson  had  been  established  very  com- 
fortably in  a  corner  with  Professor  Slem,  who  was 
listening  with  great  apparent  interest  to  her  accounts 
of  the  early  life  in  Ohio.  Irene  seemed  relieved  to  get 
away  into  the  open  air,  but  she  was  in  a  mood  that 
Mr.  King  could  not  account  for.  Upon  the  veranda 
they  encountered  Miss  Lamont  and  the  artist,  whose 
natural  enjoyment  of  the  scene  somewhat  restored  her 
equanimity.  Could  there  be  anything  more  refined 
and  charming  in  the  world  than  this  landscape,  this 
hospitable,  smiling  house,  with  the  throng  of  easy-man- 
nered, pleasant-speaking  guests,  leisurely  flowing  along 
in  the  conventional  stream  of  social  comity.  One 


Their  Pilgrimage. 

must  be  a  churl  not  to  enjoy  it.  But  Irene  was  not 
sorry  when,  presently,  it  was  time  to  go,  though  she 
tried  to  extract  some  comfort  from  her  mother's  en- 
joyment of  the  occasion.  It  was  beautiful.  Mr.  Ben- 
son was  in  a  calculating  mood.  He  thought  it  needed 
a  great  deal  of  money  to  make  things  run  so  smoothly. 
Why  should  one  inquire  in  such  a  paradise  if  things 
do  run  smoothly?  Cannot  one  enjoy  a  rose  without 
pulling  it  up  by  the  roots  ?  I  have  no  patience  with 
those  people  who  are  always  looking  on  the  seamy  side. 
I  agree  with  the  commercial  traveller  who  says  that  it 
will  only  be  in  the  millennium  that  all  goods  will  be 
alike  on  both  sides.  Mr.  King  made  the  acquaintance 
in  Newport  of  the  great  but  somewhat  philosophical 
Mr.  Snodgrass,  who  is  writing  a  work  on  "  The  Dis- 
comforts of  the  Rich,"  taking  a  view  of  life  which  he 
says  has  been  wholly  overlooked.  He  declares  that 
their  annoyances,  sufferings,  mortifications,  envies, 
jealousies,  disappointments,  dissatisfactions  (and  so  on 
through  the  dictionary  of  disagreeable  emotions),  are 
a  great  deal  more  than  those  of  the  poor,  and  that  they 
are  more  worthy  of  sympathy.  Their  troubles  are 
real  and  unbearable,  because  they  are  largely  of  the 
mind.  All  these  are  set  forth  with  so  much  powerful 
language  and  variety  of  illustration  that  King  said  no 
one  could  read  the  book  without  tears  for  the  rich  of 
Newport,  and  he  asked  Mr.  Snodgrass  why  he  did  not 
organize  a  society  for  their  relief.  But  the  latter  de- 
clared that  it  was  not  a  matter  for  levity.  The  misery 
is  real.  An  imaginary  case  would  illustrate  his  mean- 
ing. Suppose  two  persons  quarrel  about  a  purchase 
of  land,  and  one  builds  a  stable  on  his  lot  so  as  to  shut 


Their  Pilgrimage.  113 

out  his  neighbor's  view  of  the  sea.  Would  not  the  one 
suffer  because  he  could  not  see  the  ocean,  and  the  other 
by  reason  of  the  revengeful  state  of  his  mind?  He 
went  on  to  argue  that  the  owner  of  a  splendid  villa 
might  have,  for  reasons  he  gave,  less  content  in  it  than 
another  person  in  a  tiny  cottage  so  small  that  it  had  no 
spare  room  for  his  mother-in-law  even,  and  that  in  fact 
his  satisfaction  in  his  own  place  might  be  spoiled  by 
the  more  showy  place  of  his  neighbor.  Mr.  Snodgrass 
attempts  in  his  book  a  philosophical  explanation  of 
this.  He  says  that  if  every  man  designed  his  own 
cottage,  or  had  it  designed  as  an  expression  of  his  own 
ideas,  and  developed  his  grounds  and  landscape  accord- 
ing to  his  own  tastes,  working  it  out  himself,  with  the 
help  of  specialists,  he  would  be  satisfied.  But  when 
owners  have  no  ideas  about  architecture  or  about  gar- 
dening, and  their  places  are  the  creation  of  some  ex- 
perimenting architect  and  a  foreign  gardener,  and  the 
whole  effort  is  not  to  express  a  person's  individual 
taste  and  character,  but  to  make  a  show,  then  discon- 
tent as  to  his  own  will  arise  whenever  some  new  and 
more  showy  villa  is  built.  Mr.  Benson,  who  was  pok- 
ing about  a  good  deal,  strolling  along  the  lanes  and 
getting  into  the  rears  of  the  houses,  said,  when  this  book 
was  discussed,  that  his  impression  was  that  the  real 
object  of  these  fine  places  was  to  support  a  lot  of  Eng- 
lish gardeners,  grooms,  and  stable-boys.  They  are  a 
kind  of  aristocracy.  They  have  really  made  Newport 
(that  is  the  summer,  transient  Newport,  for  it  is  large- 
ly a  transient  Newport).  "I've  been  inquiring,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Benson,  "  and  you'd  be  surprised  to  know 
the  number  of  people  who  come  here,  buy  or  build  ex- 
8 


114  Their  Pilgrimage. 

pensive  villas,  splurge  out  for  a  year  or  two,  then  fail 
or  get  tired  of  it,  and  disappear." 

Mr.  Snodgrass  devotes  a  chapter  to  the  parvenues  at 
Newport.  By  the  parvenu — his  definition  may  not  be 
scientific — he  seems  to  mean  a  person  who  is  vulgar, 
but  has  money,  and  tries  to  get  into  society  on  the 
strength  of  his  money  alone.  He  is  more  to  be  pitied 
than  any  other  sort  of  rich  man.  For  he  not  only 
works  hard  and  suffers  humiliation  in  getting  his  place 
in  society,  but  after  he  is  in  he  works  just  as  hard,  and 
with  bitterness  in  his  heart,  to  keep  out  other  parvenues 
like  himself.  And  this  is  misery. 

But  our  visitors  did  not  care  for  the  philosophizing 
of  Mr.  Snodgrass — you  can  spoil  almost  anything  by 
turning  it  wrong  side  out.  They  thought  Newport 
the  most  beautiful  and  finished  watering-place  in 
America.  Nature  was  in  the  loveliest  mood  when  it 
was  created,  and  art  has  generally  followed  her  sug- 
gestions of  beauty  and  refinement.  They  did  not 
agree  with  the  cynic  who  said  that  Newport  ought  to 
be  walled  in,  and  have  a  gate  with  an  inscription, 
"None  but  Millionaires  allowed  here."  It  is  very 
easy  to  get  out  of  the  artificial  Newport  and  to  come 
into  scenery  that  Nature  has  made  after  artistic  de- 
signs which  artists  are  satisfied  with.  A  favorite 
drive  of  our  friends  was  to  the  Second  Beach  and  the 
Purgatory  Rocks  overlooking  it.  The  photographers 
and  the  water-color  artists  have  exaggerated  the  Pur- 
gatory chasm  into  a  Colorado  canon,  but  anybody  can 
find  it  by  help  of  a  guide.  The  rock  of  this  locality 
is  a  curious  study.  It  is  an  agglomerate  made  of  peb- 
bles and  cement,  the  pebbles  being  elongated  as  if  by 


Their  Pilgrimage.  115 

pressure.  The  rock  is  sometimes  found  in  detached 
fragments  having  the  form  of  tree  trunks.  Whenever 
it  is  fractured,  the  fracture  is  a  clean  cut,  as  if  made 
by  a  saw,  and  through  both  pebbles  and  cement,  and 
the  ends  present  the  appearance  of  a  composite  cake 
filled  with  almonds  and  cut  with  a  knife.  The  land- 
scape is  beautiful. 

"  All  the  lines  are  so  simple,"  the  artist  explained. 
"  The  shore,  the  sea,  the  gray  rocks,  with  here  and  there 
the  roof  of  a  quaint  cottage  to  enliven  the  effect,  and 
few  trees,  only  just  enough  for  contrast  with  the  long, 
sweeping  lines." 

"  You  don't  like  trees  ?"  asked  Miss  Lamont. 

"  Yes,  in  themselves.  But  trees  are  apt  to  be  in  the 
way.  There  are  too  many  trees  in  America.  It  is 
not  often  you  can  get  a  broad,  simple  effect  like  this." 

It  happened  to  be  a  day  when  the  blue  of  the  sea 
was  that  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  sky  and  sea 
melted  into  each  other,  so  that  a  distant  sail-boat 
seemed  to  be  climbing  into  the  heavens.  The  waves 
rolled  in  blue  on  the  white  sand  beach,  and  broke  in 
silver.  Three  young  girls  on  horseback  galloping  in 
a  race  along  the  hard  beach  at  the  moment  gave  the 
needed  animation  to  a  very  pretty  picture. 

North  of  this  the  land  comes  down  to  the  sea  in 
knolls  of  rock  breaking  off  suddenly — rocks  gray  with 
lichen,  and  shaded  with  a  touch  of  other  vegetation. 
Between  these  knife-back  ledges  are  plots  of  sea-green 
grass  and  sedge,  with  little  ponds,  black,  and  mirror- 
ing the  sky.  Leaving  this  wild  bit  of  nature,  which 
has  got  the  name  of  Paradise  (perhaps  because  few 
people  go  there),  the  road  back  to  town  sweeps  through 


116  Their  Pilgrimage. 

sweet  farm  land ;  the  smell  of  hay  is  in  the  air,  loads 
of  hay  encumber  the  roads,  flowers  in  profusion  half 
smother  the  farm  cottages,  and  the  trees  of  the  apple- 
orchards  are  gnarled  and  picturesque  as  olives. 

The  younger  members  of  the  party  climbed  up  into 
this  paradise  one  day,  leaving  the  elders  in  their  car- 
riages. They  came  into  a  new  world,  as  unlike  New- 
port as  if  they  had  been  a  thousand  miles  away.  The 
spot  was  wilder  than  it  looked  from  a  distance.  The 
high  ridges  of  rock  lay  parallel,  with  bosky  valleys 
and  ponds  between,  and  the  sea  shining  in  the  south — 
all  in  miniature.  On  the  way  to  the  ridges  they 
passed  clean  pasture  fields,  bowlders,  gray  rocks,  aged 
cedars  with  flat  tops  like  the  stone-pines  of  Italy.  It 
was  all  wild  but  exquisite,  a  refined  wildness  recalling 
the  pictures  of  Rousseau. 

Irene  and  Mr.  King  strolled  along  one  of  the  ridges, 
and  sat  down  on  a  rock  looking  off  upon  the  peaceful 
expanse,  the  silver  lines  of  the  curving  shores,  and  the 
blue  sea  dotted  with  white  sails. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  girl,  with  an  aspiration,  "  this  is  the 
sort  of  five-o'clock  I  like." 

"  And  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  be  here  with  you  than  at 
the  Blims'  reception,  from  which  we  ran  away." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Irene,  not  looking  at  him,  and  jab- 
bing the  point  of  her  parasol  into  the  ground — "I 
thought  you  liked  Newport." 

"  So  I  do,  or  did.  I  thought  you  would  like  it.  But, 
pardon  me,  you  seem  somehow  different  from  what  you 
were  at  Fortress  Monroe,  or  even  at  lovely  Atlantic 
City,"  this  with  a  rather  forced  laugh. 

"Do  I?     Well,  I  suppose  I  am;  that  is,  different 


Their  Pilgrimage.  117 

from  what  you  thought  me.  I  should  hate  this  place 
in  a  week  more,  beautiful  as  it  is." 

"  Your  mother  is  pleased  here  ?" 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly.  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
how  much  she  thanked  you  for  the  invitation  to  your 
cousin's.  She  was  delighted  there." 

"  And  you  were  not  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  so;  you  were  very  kind." 

"  Oh,  kind!  I  didn't  mean  to  be  kind.  I  was  purely 
selfish  in  wanting  you  to  go.  Cannot  you  believe,  Miss 
Benson,  that  I  had  some  pride  in  having  my  friends 
see  you  and  know  you  ?" 

"  Well,  I  will  be  as  frank  as  you  are,  Mr.  King.  I 
don't  like  being  shown  off.  There,  don't  look  dis- 
pleased. I  didn't  mean  anything  disagreeable." 

"But  I  hoped  you  understood  my  motives  better 
by  this  time." 

"  I  did  not  think  about  motives,  but  the  fact  is  " 
(another  jab  of  the  parasol),  "  I  was  made  desperately 
uncomfortable,  and  always  shall  be  under  such  circum- 
stances, and,  my  friend — I  should  like  to  believe  you 
are  my  friend — you  may  as  well  expect  I  always  will 
be." 

"  I  cannot  do  that.     You  under — " 

"I  just  see  things  as  they  are,"  Irene  went  on, 
hastily.  "You  think  I  am  different  here.  Well,  I 
don't  mind  saying  that  when  I  made  your  acquaint- 
ance I  thought  you  different  from  any  man  I  had 
met."  But  now  it  was  out,  she  did  mind  saying  it, 
and  stopped,  confused,  as  if  she  had  confessed  some- 
thing. But  she  continued,  almost  immediately  :  "  I 
mean  I  liked  your  manner  to  women;  you  didn't  ap- 


118  Their  Pilgrimage. 

pear  to  flatter,  and  you  didn't  talk  complimentary  non- 
sense." 

"And  now  I  do?" 

"No.  Not  that.  But  everything  is  somehow 
changed  here.  Don't  let's  talk  of  it.  There's  the 
carriage." 

Irene  arose,  a  little  flushed,  and  walked  towards  the 
point.  Mr.  King,  picking  his  way  along  behind  her 
over  the  rocks,  said,  with  an  attempt  at  lightening  the 
situation,  "  Well,  Miss  Benson,  I'm  going  to  be  just  as 
different  as  ever  a  man  was.M 


CHAPTER  V. 

.E  have  heard  it  said  that  one  of  the 
charms  of  Narragansett  Pier  is  that  you 
can  see  Newport  from  it.  The  summer 
dwellers  at  the  Pier  talk  a  good  deal 
about  liking  it  better  than  Newport;  it 
is  less  artificial  and  more  restful.  The 
Newporters  never  say  anything  about  the  Pier.  The 
Pier  people  say  that  it  is  not  fair  to  judge  it  when 
you  come  direct  from  Newport,  but  the  longer  you 
stay  there  the  better  you  like  it;  and  if  any  too  frank 
person  admits  that  he  would  not  stay  in  Narragansett 
a  day  if  he  could  afford  to  live  in  Newport,  he  is  sus- 
pected of  aristocratic  proclivities. 

In  a  calm  summer  morning,  such  as  our  party  of 
pilgrims  chose  for  an  excursion  to  the  Pier,  there  is  no 
prettier  sail  in  the  world  than  that  out  of  the  harbor, 
by  Conanicut  Island  and  Beaver-tail  Light.  It  is  a 
holiday  harbor,  all  these  seas  are  holiday  seas — the 
yachts,  the  sail  vessels,  the  puffing  steamers,  moving 
swiftly  from  one  headland  to  another,  or  loafing  about 
the  blue,  smiling  sea,  are  all  on  pleasure  bent.  The 
vagrant  vessels  that  are  idly  watched  from  the  rocks 
at  the  Pier  may  be  coasters  and  freight  schooners  en- 
gaged seriously  in  trade,  but  they  do  not  seem  so. 
They  are  a  part  of  the  picture,  always  to  be  seen  slow- 
ly dipping  along  in  the  horizon,  and  the  impression  is 


120  Their  Pilgrimage. 

that  they  are  manoeuvred  for  show,  arranged  for  pict- 
uresque effect,  and  that  they  are  all  taken  in  at  night. 
The  visitors  confessed  when  they  landed  that  the 
Pier  was  a  contrast  to  Newport.  The  shore  below 
the  landing  is  a  line  of  broken,  ragged,  slimy  rocks,  as 
if  they  had  been  dumped  there  for  a  riprap  wall. 
Fronting  this  unkempt  shore  is  a  line  of  barrack-like 
hotels,  with  a  few  cottages  of  the  cheap  sort.  At  the 
end  of  this  row  of  hotels  is  a  fine  granite  Casino,  spa- 
cious, solid,  with  wide  verandas,  and  a  tennis-court — 
such  a  building  as  even  Newport  might  envy.  Then 
come  more  hotels,  a  cluster  of  cheap  shops,  and  a  long 
line  of  bath-houses  facing  a  lovely  curving  beach. 
Bathing  is  the  fashion  at  the  Pier,  and  everybody 
goes  to  the  beach  at  noon.  The  spectators  occupy 
chairs  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the  bath-houses,  or 
sit  under  tents  erected  on  the  smooth  sand.  At  high 
noon  the  scene  is  very  lively,  and  even  pictur.esque,  for 
the  ladies  here  dress  for  bathing  with  an  intention  of 
pleasing.  It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  angels  in 
heaven  are  not  edified  by  this  promiscuous  bathing, 
and  by  the  spectacle  of  a  crowd  of  women  tossing 
about  in  the  surf,  but  an  impartial  angel  would  admit 
that  many  of  the  costumes  here  are  becoming,  and 
that  the  effect  of  the  red  and  yellow  caps,  making  a 
color  line  in  the  flashing  rollers,  is  charming.  It  is 
true  that  there  are  odd  figures  in  the  shifting  melee — 
one  solitary  old  gentleman,  who  had  contrived  to  get  his 
bathing-suit  on  hind-side  before,  wandered  along  the 
ocean  margin  like  a  lost  Ulysses;  and  that  fat  woman 
and  fat  man  were  never  intended  for  this  sort  of  ex- 
hibition; but  taken  altogether,  with  its  colors,  and  the 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


121 


silver  flash  of  the  breaking  waves,  the  scene  was  ex- 
ceedingly pretty.  Not  the  least  pretty  part  of  it  was 
the  fringe  of  children  tumbling  on  the  beach,  follow- 
ing the  retreating  waves,  and  flying  from  the  incom- 
ing rollers  with  screams  of  delight.  Children,  indeed, 


A  CATAMARAN. 


are  a  characteristic  of  Narragansett  Pier — children 
and  mothers.  It  might  be  said  to  be  a  family  place; 
it  is  a  good  deal  so  on  Sundays,  and  occasionally  when 
the  "  business  men  "  come  down  from  the  cities  to  see 
how  their  wives  and  children  get  on  at  the  hotels. 
After  the  bathing  it  is  the  fashion  to  meet  again  at 


122  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  Casino  and  take  lunch — sometimes  through  a  straw 
— and  after  dinner  everybody  goes  for  a  stroll  on  the 
cliffs.  This  is  a  noble  sea-promenade;  with  its  hand- 
some villas  and  magnificent  rocks,  a  fair  rival  to  New- 
port. The  walk,  as  usually  taken,  is  two  or  three 
miles  along  the  bold,  rocky  shore,  but  an  ambitious 
pedestrian  may  continue  it  to  the  light  on  Point  Ju- 
dith. Nowhere  on  this  coast  are  the  rocks  more  im- 
posing, and  nowhere  do  they  offer  so  many  studies  in 
color.  The  visitor's  curiosity  is  excited  by  a  massive 
granite  tower  which  rises  out  of  a  mass  of  tangled 
woods  planted  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  his  curios- 
ity is  not  satisfied  on  nearer  inspection,  when  he  makes 
his  way  into  this  thick  and  gloomy  forest,  and  finds  a 
granite  cottage  near  the  tower,  and  the  signs  of  neg- 
lect and  wildness  that  might  mark  the  home  of  a  re- 
cluse. What  is  the  object  of  this  noble  tower  ?  If  it 
was  intended  to  adorn  the  landscape,  why  was  it 
ruined  by  piercing  it  irregularly  with  square  windows 
like  those  of  a  factory  ? 

One  has  to  hold  himself  back  from  being  drawn 
into  the  history  and  romance  of  this  Narragansett 
shore.  Down  below  the  bathing  beach  is  the  preten- 
tious wooden  pile  called  Canonchet,  that  already  wears 
the  air  of  tragedy.  And  here,  at  this  end,  is  the  mys- 
terious tower,  and  an  ugly  unfinished  dwelling-house 
of  granite,  with  the  legend  "  Druid's  Dream  "  carved 
over  the  entrance  door;  and  farther  inland,  in  a  sandy 
and  shrubby  landscape,  is  Kendall  Green,  a  private 
cemetery,  with  its  granite  monument,  surrounded  by 
heavy  granite  posts,  every  other  one  of  which  is  hol- 
lowed in  the  top  as  a  receptacle  for  food  for  birds. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  123 

And  one  reads  there  these  inscriptions:  "Whatever 
their  mode  of  faith,  or  creed,  who  feed  the  wandering 
birds,  will  themselves  be  fed."  "  Who  helps  the  help- 
less, Heaven  will  help."  This  inland  region,  now  ap- 
parently deserted  and  neglected,  was  once  the  seat  of 
colonial  aristocracy,  who  exercised  a  princely  hospital- 
ity on  their  great  plantations,  exchanged  visits  and 
ran  horses  with  the  planters  of  Virginia  and  the  Caro- 
linas,  and  were  known  as  far  as  Kentucky,  and  per- 
haps best  known  for  their  breed  of  Narragansett 
pacers.  But  let  us  get  back  to  the  shore. 

In  wandering  along  the  cliff  path  in  the  afternoon, 
Irene  and  Mr.  King  were  separated  from  the  others, 
and  unconsciously  extended  their  stroll,  looking  for  a 
comfortable  seat  in  the  rocks.  The  day  was  perfect. 
The  sky  had  only  a  few  fleecy,  high-sailing  clouds, 
and  the  great  expanse  of  sea  sparkled  under  the  hec- 
toring of  a  light  breeze.  The  atmosphere  was  not  too 
clear  on  the  horizon  for  dreamy  effects;  all  the  head- 
lands were  softened  and  tinged  with  opalescent  col- 
ors. As  the  light  struck  them,  the  sails  which  en- 
livened the  scene  were  either  dark  spots  or  shining 
silver  sheets  on  the  delicate  blue.  At  one  spot  on  this 
shore  rises  a  vast  mass  of  detached  rock,  separated  at 
low  tide  from  the  shore  by  irregular  bowlders  and  a 
tiny  thread  of  water.  In  search  of  a  seat  the  two 
strollers  made  their  way  across  this  rivulet  over  the 
broken  rocks,  passed  over  the  summit  of  the  giant 
mass,  and  established  themselves  in  a  cavernous  place 
close  to  the  sea.  Here  was  a  natural  seat,  and  the 
bulk  of  the  seamed  and  colored  ledge,  rising  above 
their  heads  and  curving  around  them,  shut  them  out 


124:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

of  sight  of  the  land,  and  left  them  alone  with  the 
dashing  sea,  and  the  gulls  that  circled  and  dipped 
their  silver  wings  in  their  eager  pursuit  of  prey.  For 
a  time  neither  spoke.  Irene  was  looking  seaward,  and 
Mr.  King,  who  had  a  lower  seat,  attentively  watched 
the  waves  lapping  the  rocks  at  their  feet,  and  the  fine 
profile  and  trim  figure  of  the  girl  against  the  sky.  He 
thought  he  had  never  seen  her  looking  more  lovely, 
and  yet  he  had  a  sense  that  she  never  was  so  remote 
from  him.  Here  was  an  opportunity,  to  be  sure,  if  he 
had  anything  to  say,  but  some  fine  feeling  of  propri- 
ety restrained  him  from  taking  advantage  of  it.  It 
might  not  be  quite  fair,  in  a  place  so  secluded  and  re- 
mote, and  with  such  sentimental  influences,  shut  in  as 
they  were  to  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

"  It  seems  like  a  world  by  itself,"  she  began,  as  in 
continuation  of  her  thought.  "  They  say  you  can  see 
Gay  Head  Light  from  here." 

"Yes.  And  Newport  to  the  left  there,  with  its 
towers  and  trees  rising  out  of  the  sea.  It  is  quite  like 
the  Venice  Lagoon  in  this  light." 

"  I  think  I  like  Newport  better  at  this  distance.  It 
is  very  poetical.  I  don't  think  I  like  what  is  called 
the  world  much,  when  I  am  close  to  it." 

The  remark  seemed  to  ask  for  sympathy,  and  Mr. 
King  ventured:  "Are  you  willing  to  tell  me,  Miss 
Benson,  why  you  have  not  seemed  as  happy  at  New- 
port as  elsewhere  ?  Pardon  me;  it  is  not  an  idle  ques- 
tion." Irene,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  away  beyond 
Gay  Head,  did  not  reply.  "  I  should  like  to  know  if 
I  have  been  in  any  way  the  cause  of  it.  We  agreed 
to  be  friends,  and  I  think  I  have  a  friend's  right  to 


Their  Pilgrimage.  125 

know."  Still  no  response.  "You  must  see  —  you 
must  know,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  that  it  cannot 
be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me." 

"  It  had  better  be,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  deliber- 
ately to  herself,  and  still  looking  away.  But  sudden- 
ly she  turned  towards  him,  and  the  tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes,  and  the  words  rushed  out  fiercely,  "  I  wish  I  had 
never  left  Cyrusville.  I  wish  I  had  never  been  abroad. 
I  wish  I  had  never  been  educated.  It  is  all  a  wretch- 
ed mistake." 

King  was  unprepared  for  such  a  passionate  out- 
burst. It  was  like  a  rift  in  a  cloud,  through  which  he 
had  a  glimpse  of  her  real  life.  Words  of  eager  pro- 
test sprang  to  his  lips,  but,  before  they  could  be  ut- 
tered, either  her  mood  had  changed  or  pride  had  come 
to  the  rescue,  for  she  said:  "  How  silly  I  am  !  Every- 
body has  discontented  days.  Mr.  King,  please  don't 
ask  me  such  questions.  If  you  want  to  be  a  friend, 
you  will  let  me  be  unhappy  now  and  then,  and  not 
say  anything  about  it." 

"  But,  Miss  Benson — Irene — " 

"There — 'Miss  Benson'  will  do  very  well." 

"Well,  Miss — Irene,  then,  there  was  something  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you  the  other  day  in  Paradise — " 

"  Look,  Mr.  King.  Did  you  see  that  wave  ?  I'm 
sure  it  is  nearer  our  feet  than  when  we  sat  down 
here." 

"  Oh,  that's  just  an  extra  lift  by  the  wind.  I  want 
to  tell  you.  I  must  tell  you  that  life — has  all  changed 
since  I  met  you — Irene,  I — " 

"  There  !  There's  no  mistake  about  that.  The  last 
wave  came  a  foot  higher  than  the  other  !" 


126 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


King  sprang  up.  "Perhaps  it  is  the  tide.  I'll  go 
and  see."  He  ran  up  the  rock,  leaped  across  the  fis- 
sures, and  looked  over  on  the  side  they  had  ascended. 
Sure  enough,  the  tide  was  coming  in.  The  stones  on 
which  they  had  stepped  were  covered,  and  a  deep 


CAUGHT  BY  THE  TIDE. 

stream  of  water,  rising  with  every  pulsation  of  the 
sea,  now,  where  there  was  only  a  rivulet  before.  He 
hastened  back.  "  There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  We 
are  caught  by  the  tide,  and  if  we  are  not  off  in  five 
minutes  we  shall  be  prisoners  here  till  the  turn." 
He  helped  her  up  the  slope  and  over  the  chasm.  The 


Their  Pilgrimage.  127 

way  was  very  plain  when  they  came  on,  but  now  he 
could  not  find  it.  At  the  end  of  every  attempt  was  a 
precipice.  And  the  water  was  rising.  A  little  girl 
on  the  shore  shouted  to  them  to  follow  along  a  ledge 
she  pointed  out,  then  descend  between  two  bowlders 
to  the  ford.  Precious  minutes  were  lost  in  accom- 
plishing this  circuitous  descent,  and  then  they  found 
the  stepping-stones  under -water,  and  the  sea- weed 
swishing  about  the  slippery  rocks  with  the  incoming 
tide.  It  was  a  ridiculous  position  for  lovers,  or  even 
"  friends  " — ridiculous  because  it  had  no  element  of 
danger  except  the  ignominy  of  getting  wet.  If  there 
was  any  heroism  in  seizing  Irene  before  she  could  pro- 
test, stumbling  with  his  burden  among  the  slimy  rocks, 
and  depositing  her,  with  only  wet  shoes,  on  the  shore, 
Mr.  King  shared  it,  and  gained  the  title  of  "  Life-pre- 
server." The  adventure  ended  with  a  laugh. 

The  day  after  the  discovery  and  exploration  of  Nar- 
ragansett,  Mr.  King  spent  the  morning  with  his  cousin 
at  the  Casino.  It  was  so  pleasant  that  he  wondered 
he  had  not  gone  there  oftener,  and  that  so  few  people 
frequented  it.  Was  it  that  the  cottagers  were  too 
strong  for  the  Casino  also,  which  was  built  for  the 
recreation  of  the  cottagers,  and  that  they  found  when 
it  came  to  the  test  that  they  could  not  with  comfort 
come  into  any  sort  of  contact  with  popular  life?  It 
is  not  large,  but  no  summer  resort  in  Europe  has  a 
prettier  place  for  lounging  and  reunion.  None  have 
such  an  air  of  refinement  and  exclusiveness.  Indeed, 
one  of  the  chief  attractions  and  entertainments  in  the 
foreign  casinos  and  conversation-halls  is  the  mingling 
there  of  all  sorts  of  peoples,  and  the  animation  aris- 


128  Their  Pilgrimage. 

ing  from  diversity  of  conditions.  This  popular  com- 
mingling in  pleasure  resorts  is  safe  enough  in  aristo- 
cratic countries,  but  it  will  not  answer  in  a  republic. 

The  Newport  Casino  is  in  the  nature  of  a  club  of 
the  best  society.  The  building  and  grounds  express 
the  most  refined  taste.  Exteriorly  the  house  is  a  long, 
low  Queen  Anne  cottage,  with  brilliant  shops  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  above,  behind  the  wooded  balconies, 
is  the  clubroom.  The  tint  of  the  shingled  front  is 
brown,  and  all  the  colors  are  low  and  blended.  With- 
in, the  court  is  a  mediaeval  surprise.  It  is  a  miniature 
castle,  such  as  might  serve  for  an  opera  scene.  An 
extension  of  the  galleries,  an  ombre,  completes  the 
circle  around  the  plot  of  close-clipped  green  turf. 
The  house  itself  is  all  balconies,  galleries,  odd  win- 
dows half  overgrown  and  hidden  by  ivy,  and  a  large 
gilt  clock-face  adds  a  touch  of  piquancy  to  the  antique 
charm  of  the  faQade.  Beyond  the  first  court  is  a  more 
spacious  and  less  artificial  lawn,  set  with  fine  trees,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  it  is  the  brown  building  containing 
ballroom  and  theatre,  bowling-alley  and  closed  tennis- 
court,  and  at  an  angle  with  the  second  lawn  is  a  pretty 
field  for  lawn-tennis.  Here  the  tournaments  are  held, 
and  on  these  occasions,  and  on  ball  nights,  the  Casino 
is  thronged. 

If  the  Casino  is  then  so  exclusive,  why  is  it  not  more 
used  as  a  rendezvous  and  lounging-place  ?  Alas!  it 
must  be  admitted  that  it  is  not  exclusive.  By  an  as- 
tonishing concession  in  the  organization  any  person 
can  gain  admittance  by  paying  the  sum  of  fifty  cents. 
This  tax  is  sufficient  to  exclude  the  deserving  poor, 
but  it  is  only  an  inducement  to  the  vulgar  rich,  and  it 


Their  Pilgrimage.  129 

is  even  broken  down  by  the  prodigal  excursionist,  who 
commonly  sets  out  from  home  with  the  intention  of 
being  reckless  for  one  day.  It  is  easy  to  see,  therefore, 
why  the  charm  of  this  delightful  place  is  tarnished. 

The  band  was  playing  this  morning — not  rink  music 
• — when  Mrs.  Glow  and  King  entered  and  took  chairs 
on  the  ombre.  It  was  a  very  pretty  scene;  more  peo- 
ple were  present  than  usual  of  a  morning.  Groups  of 
half  a  dozen  had  drawn  chairs  together  here  and  there, 
and  were  chatting  and  laughing  ;  two  or  three  exceed- 
ingly well-preserved  old  bachelors,  in  the  smart  rough 
morning  suits  of  the  period,  were  entertaining  their 
lady  friends  with  club  and  horse  talk;  several  old  gen- 
tlemen were  reading  newspapers;  and  there  were  some 
dowager-looking  mammas,  and  seated  by  them  their 
cold,  beautiful,  high-bred  daughters,  who  wore  their 
visible  exclusiveness  like  a  garment,  and  contrasted 
with  some  other  young  ladies  who  were  promenading 
with  English-looking  young  men  in  flannel  suits,  who 
might  be  described  as  lawn-tennis  young  ladies  con- 
scious of  being  in  the  mode,  but  wanting  the  indescrib- 
able atmosphere  of  high  -  breeding.  Doubtless  the 
most  interesting  persons  to  the  student  of  human  life 
were  the  young  fellows  in  lawn-tennis  suits.  They 
had  the  languid  air,  which  is  so  attractive  at  their  age, 
of  having  found  out  life,  and  decided  that  it  is  a  bore. 
Nothing  is  worth  making  an  exertion  about,  not  even 
pleasure.  They  had  come,  one  could  see,  to  a  just  ap- 
preciation of  their  value  in  life,  and  understood  quite 
well  the  social  manners  of  the  mammas  and  girls  in 
whose  company  they  condescended  to  dawdle  and 
make,  languidly,  cynical  observations.  They  had,  in 
9 


130  Their  Pilgrimage. 

truth,  the  manner  of  playing  at  fashion  and  elegance 
as  in  a  stage  comedy.  King  could  not  help  thinking 
there  was  something  theatrical  about  them  altogether, 
and  he  fancied  that  when  he  saw  them  in  their  "  traps  " 
on  the  Avenue  they  were  going  through  the  motions 
for  show  and  not  for  enjoyment.  Probably  King  was 
mistaken  in  all  this,  having  been  abroad  so  long  that 
he  did  not  understand  the  evolution  of  the  American 
gilded  youth. 

In  a  pause  of  the  music  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  and  Mr. 
King  were  standing  with  a  group  near  the  steps  that 
led  down  to  the  inner  lawn.  Among  them  were  the 
Postlethwaite  girls,  whose  beauty  and  audacity  made 
such  a  sensation  in  Washington  last  winter.  They 
were  bantering  Mr.  King  about  his  Narragansett  ex- 
cursion, his  cousin  having  maliciously  given  the  party 
a  hint  of  his  encounter  with  the  tide  at  the  Pier.  Just 
at  this  moment,  happening  to  glance  across  the  lawn, 
he  saw  the  Bensons  coming  towards  the  steps,  Mrs. 
Benson  waddling  over  the  grass  and  beaming  towards 
the  group,  Mr.  Benson  carrying  her  shawl  and  looking 
as  if  he  had  been  hired  by  the  day,  and  Irene  listlessly 
following.  Mrs.  Glow  saw  them  at  the  same  moment, 
but  gave  no  other  sign  of  her  knowledge  than  by 
striking  into  the  banter  with  more  animation.  Mr. 
King  intended  at  once  to  detach  himself  and  advance 
to  meet  the  Bensons.  But  he  could  not  rudely  break 
away  from  the  unfinished  sentence  of  the  younger 
Postlethwaite  girl,  and  the  instant  that  was  con. 
eluded,  as  luck  would  have  it,  an  elderly  lady  joined 
the  group,  and  Mrs.  Glow  went  through  the  formal 
ceremony  of  introducing  King  to  her.  He  hardly 


Their  Pilgrimage,  131 

knew  how  it  happened,  only  that  he  made  a  hasty 
bow  to  the  Bensons  as  he  was  shaking  hands  with  the 
ceremonious  old  lady,  and  they  had  gone  to  the  door 
of  exit.  He  gave  a  little  start  as  if  to  follow  them, 
which  Mrs.  Glow  noticed  with  a  laugh  and  the  re- 
mark, "You  can  catch  them  if  you  run,"  and  then  he 
weakly  submitted  to  his  fate.  After  all,  it  was  only 
an  accident,  which  would  hardly  need  a  word  of  ex- 
planation. But  what  Irene  saw  was  this:  a  distant 
nod  from  Mrs.  Glow,  a  cool  survey  and  stare  from  the 
Postlethwaite  girls,  and  the  failure  of  Mr.  King  to 
recognize  his  friends  any  further  than  by  an  indiffer- 
ent bow  as  he  turned  to  speak  to  another  lady.  In  the 
raw  state  of  her  sensitiveness  she  felt  all  this  as  a  ter- 
rible and  perhaps  intended  humiliation. 

King  did  not  return  to  the  hotel  tilt  evening,  and 
then  he  sent  up  his  card  to  the  Bensons.  Word  came 
back  that  the  ladies  were  packing,  and  must  be  ex- 
cused. He  stood  at  the  office  desk  and  wrote  a  hasty 
note  to  Irene,  attempting  an  explanation  of  what  might 
seem  to  her  a  rudeness,  and  asked  that  he  might  see 
her  a  moment.  And  then  he  paced  the  corridor  wait- 
ing for  a  reply.  In  his  impatience,  the  fifteen  minutes 
that  he  waited  seemed  an  hour.  Then  a  bell-boy 
handed  him  this  note: 

"My  DEAR  MR.  KING, — No  explanation  whatever 
was  needed.  We  never  shall  forget  your  kindness. 
Good-bye.  IRENE  BENSON." 

He  folded  the  note  carefully  and  put  it  in  his  breast 
pocket,  took  it  out  and  reread  it,  lingering  over  the 
fine  and  dainty  signature,  put  it  back  again,  and 


132  Their  Pilgrimage. 

walked  out  upon  the  piazza.  It  was  a  divine  night, 
soft  and  sweet-scented,  and  all  the  rustling  trees 
were  luminous  in  the  electric  light.  From  a  window 
opening  upon  a  balcony  overhead  came  the  clear  notes 
of  a  barytone  voice  enunciating  the  old-fashioned 
words  of  an  English  ballad,  the  refrain  of  which  ex- 
pressed hopeless  separation. 

The  eastern  coast,  with  its  ragged  outline  of  bays, 
headlands,  indentations,  islands,  capes,  and  sand-spits, 
from  Watch  Hill,  a  favorite  breezy  resort,  to  Mount 
Desert,  presents  an  almost  continual  chain  of  hotels 
and  summer  cottages.  In  fact,  the  same  may  be  said 
of  the  whole  Atlantic  front  from  Mount  Desert  down 
to  Cape  May.  It  is  to  the  traveller  an  amazing  spec- 
tacle. The  American  people  can  no  longer  be  re- 
proached for  not  taking  any  summer  recreation.  The 
amount  of  money  invested  to  meet  the  requirements 
of  this  vacation  idleness  is  enormous.  When  one 
is  on  the  coast  in  July  or  August  it  seems  as  if  the 
whole  fifty  millions  of  people  had  come  down  to  lie  on 
the  rocks,  wade  in  the  sand,  and  dip  into  the  sea. 
But  this  is  not  the  case.  These  crowds  are  only  a 
fringe  of  the  pleasure-seeking  population.  In  all  the 
mountain  regions  from  North  Carolina  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  and  the  White  Hills,  along  the  St.  Lawrence  and 
the  lakes  away  up  to  the  Northwest,  in  every  elevated 
village,  on  every  mountain  -  side,  about  every  pond, 
lake,  and  clear  stream,  in  the  wilderness  and  the  se- 
cluded farmhouse,  one  encounters  the  traveller,  the 
summer  boarder,  the  vacation  idler,  one  is  scarcely  out 
of  sight  of  the  American  flag  flying  over  a  summer  re- 


"MINISTERING  ANGELS "   AT  THE  SEA-SIDE  HOTEL. 

sort.  In  no  other  nation,  probably,  is  there  such  a  gen- 
eral summer  hegira,  no  other  offers  on  such  a  vast 
scale  such  variety  of  entertainment,  and  it  is  needless 


184  Their  Pilgrimage. 

to  say  that  history  presents  no  parallel  to  this  general 
movement  of  a  people  for  a  summer  outing.  Yet  it  is 
no  doubt  true  that  statistics,  which  always  upset  a 
broad,  generous  statement  such  as  I  have  made,  would 
show  that  the  majority  of  people  stay  at  home  in  the 
summer,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  the  vexing  question 
for  everybody  is  where  to  go  in  July  and  August. 

But  there  are  resorts  suited  to  all  tastes,  and  to  the 
economical  as  well  as  to  the  extravagant.  Perhaps  the 
strongest  impression  one  has  in  visiting  the  various 
watering-places  in  the  summer-time  is  that  the  multi- 
tudes of  every-day  folk  are  abroad  in  search  of  enjoy- 
ment. On  the  New  Bedford  boat  for  Martha's  Vine- 
yard our  little  party  of  tourists  sailed  quite  away  from 
Newport  life — Stanhope  with  mingled  depression  and 
relief,  the  artist  with  some  shrinking  from  contact  with 
anything  common,  while  Marion  stood  upon  the  bow 
beside  her  uncle,  inhaling  the  salt  breeze,  regarding 
the  lovely  fleeting  shores,  her  cheeks  glowing  and  her 
eyes  sparkling  with  enjoyment.  The  passengers  and 
scene,  Stanhope  was  thinking,  were  typically  New 
England,  until  the  boat  made  a  landing  at  Naushon 
Island,  when  he  was  reminded  somehow  of  Scotland, 
as  much  perhaps  by  the  wild,  furzy  appearance  of 
the  island  as  by  the  "  gentle-folks  "  who  went  ashore. 

The  boat  lingered  for  the  further  disembarkation  of 
a  number  of  horses  and  carriages,  with  a  piano  and  a 
cow.  There  was  a  farmer's  lodge  at  the  landing,  and 
over  the  rocks  and  amid  the  trees  the  picturesque  roof 
of  the  villa  of  the  sole  proprietor  of  the  island  ap- 
peared, and  gave  a  feudal  aspect  to  the  domain.  The 
sweet  grass  affords  good  picking  for  sheep,  and  besides 


Their  Pilgrimage.  135 

the  sheep  the  owner  raises  deer,  which  are  destined  to 
be  chased  and  shot  in  the  autumn. 

The  artist  noted  that  there  were  several  distinct 
types  of  women  on  board,  besides  the  common, 
straight- waisted,  flat-chested  variety.  One  girl,  who 
Avas  alone,  with  a  city  air,  a  neat,  firm  figure,  in  a  trav- 
elling suit  of  elegant  simplicity,  was  fond  of  taking 
attitudes  about  the  rails,  and  watching  the  effect  pro- 
duced on  the  spectators.  There  was  a  blue-eyed, 
sharp-faced,  rather  loose-jointed  young  girl,  who  had 
the  manner  of  being  familiar  with  the  boat,  and  talked 
readily  and  freely  with  anybody,  keeping  an  eye  occa- 
sionally on  her  sister  of  eight  years,  a  child  with  a  seri- 
ous little  face  in  a  poke-bonnet,  who  used  the  language 
of  a  young  lady  of  sixteen,  and  seemed  also  abundant- 
ly able  to  take  care  of  herself.  What  this  mite  of  a 
child  wants  of  all  things,  she  confesses,  is  a  pug-faced 
dog.  Presently  she  sees  one  come  on  board  in  the 
arms  of  a  young  lady  at  Wood's  Holl.  "No,"  she 
says,  "  I  won't  ask  her  for  it;  the  lady  wouldn't  give  it 
to  me,  and  I  wouldn't  waste  my  breath;"  but  she  draws 
near  to  the  dog,  and  regards  it  with  rapt  attention. 
The  owner  of  the  dog  is  a  very  pretty  black-eyed  girl 
with  banged  hair,  who  prattles  about  herself  and  her 
dog  with  perfect  freedom.  She  is  staying  at  Cottage 
City,  lives  at  Worcester,  has  been  up  to  Boston  to 
meet  and  bring  down  her  dog,  without  which  she 
couldn't  live  another  minute.  "  Perhaps,"  she  says, 
"you  know  Dr.  Ridgerton,  in  Worcester;  he's  my 
brother.  Don't  you  know  him?  He's  a  chiropo- 
dist." 

These  girls  are  all  types  of  the  skating-rink — an  in- 


AN  INTERIOR. 

stitution  which  is  beginning  to  express  itself  in  Ameri- 
can manners. 

The  band  was  playing  on  the  pier  when  the  steamer 
landed  at  Cottage  City  (or  Oak  Bluff,  as  it  was 
formerly  called),  and  the  pier  and  the  gallery  leading 
to  it  were  crowded  with  spectators,  mostly  women — 
a  pleasing  mingling  of  the  skating-rink  and  sewing- 
circle  varieties — and  gayety  was  apparently  about 
setting  in  with  the  dusk.  The  rink  and  the  go-round 
opposite  the  hotel  were  in  full  tilt.  After  supper  King 


Their  Pilgrimage.  137 

and  Forbes  took  a  cursory  view  of  this  strange  encamp- 
ment, walking  through  the  streets  of  fantastic  tiny 
cottages  among  the  scrub  oaks,  and  saw  something  of 
family  life  in  the  painted  little  boxes,  whose  wide-open 
front  doors  gave  to  view  the  whole  domestic  economy, 
including  the  bed,  centre-table,  and  melodeon.  They 
strolled  also  on  the  elevated  plank  promenade  by  the 
beach,  encountering  now  and  then  a  couple  enjoying 
the  lovely  night.  Music  abounded.  The  circus-pump- 
ing strains  burst  out  of  the  rink,  calling  to  a  gay  and 
perhaps  dissolute  life.  The  band  in  the  nearly  empty 
hotel  parlor,  in  a  mournful  mood,  was  wooing  the 
guests  who  did  not  come  to  a  soothing  tune,  something 
like  China — "Why  do  we  mourn  departed  friends?" 
A  procession  of  lasses  coming  up  the  broad  walk,  ad- 
vancing out  of  the  shadows  of  night,  was  heard  afar 
off  as  the  stalwart  singers  strode  on,  chanting  in  high 
nasal  voices  that  lovely  hymn,  which  seems  to  suit  the 
rink  as  well  as  the  night  promenade  and  the  camp- 
meeting: 

"We  shall  me  —  urn  urn  —  we  shall  me-eet,  me-eet — um  urn  —  we 

shall  meet, 

In  the  sweet  by-ara-by,  by-am-by — am  um — by-am-by. 
On  the  bu-u  u-u — on  the  bu-u-u-u — on  the  bu-te-ful  shore." 

In  the  morning  this  fairy-like  settlement,  with  its 
flimsy  and  eccentric  architecture,  took  on  more  the  ap- 
pearance of  reality.  The  season  was  late,  as  usual,  and 
the  hotels  were  still  waiting  for  the  crowds  that  seem 
to  prefer  to  be  late  and  make  a  rushing  carnival  of 
August,  but  the  tiny  cottages  were  nearly  all  occu- 
pied. At  10  A.M.  the  band  was  playing  in  the  three- 
story  pagoda  sort  of  tower  at  the  bathing-place,  and 


138  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  three  stories  were  crowded  with  female  spectators. 
Below,  under  the  bank,  is  a  long  array  of  bath-houses, 
and  the  shallow  water  was  alive  with  floundering  and 
screaming  bathers.  Anchored  a  little  out  was  a  raft, 
from  which  men  and  boys  and  a  few  venturesome  girls 
were  diving,  displaying  the  human  form  in  graceful 
curves.  The  crowd  was  an  immensely  good-humored 
one,  and  enjoyed  itself.  The  sexes  mingled  together 
in  the  water,  and  nothing  thought  of  it,  as  old  Pepys 
would  have  said,  although  many  of  the  tightly-fitting 
costumes  left  less  to  the  imagination  than  would  have 
been  desired  by  a  poet  describing  the  scene  as  a  phase 
of  the  comedie  humaine.  The  band,  having  played  out 
its  hour,  trudged  back  to  the  hotel  pier  to  toot  while 
the  noon  steamboat  landed  its  passengers,  in  order  to 
impress  the  new  arrivals  with  the  mad  joyousness  of 
the  place.  The  crowd  gathered  on  the  high  gallery  at 
the  end  of  the  pier  added  to  this  effect  of  reckless  holi- 
day enjoyment.  Miss  Lamont  was  infected  with  this 
gayety,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  this  peri- 
patetic band,  which  was  playing  again  on  the  hotel 
piazza  before  dinner,  with  a  sort  of  mechanical  hilari- 
ousness.  The  rink  band  opposite  kept  up  a  lively  com- 
petition, grinding  out  go-round  music,  imparting,  if 
one  may  say  so,  a  glamour  to  existence.  The  band  is 
on  hand  at  the  pier  at  four  o'clock  to  toot  again,  and 
presently  off,  tramping  to  some  other  hotel  to  satisfy 
the  serious  pleasure  of  this  people. 

While  Mr.  King  could  not  help  wondering  how  all 
this  curious  life  would  strike  Irene — he  put  his  lone- 
someness  and  longing  in  this  way — and  what  she  would 
say  about  it,  he  endeavored  to  divert  his  mind  by  a 


Their  Pilgrimage.  139 

study  of  the  conditions,  and  by  some  philosophizing 
on  the  change  that  had  come  over  American  summer 
life  within  a  few  years.  In  his  investigations  he  was 
assisted  by  Mr.  De  Long,  to  whom  this  social  life  was 
absolutely  new,  and  who  was  disposed  to  regard  it  as 
peculiarly  Yankee — the  staid  dissipation  of  a  serious- 
minded  people.  King,  looking  at  it  more  broadly, 
found  this  pasteboard  city  by  the  sea  one  of  the  most 
interesting  developments  of  American  life.  The  origi- 
nal nucleus  was  the  Methodist  camp-meeting,  which, 
in  the  season,  brought  here  twenty  thousand  to  thirty 
thousand  people  at  a  time,  who  camped  and  picnicked 
in  a  somewhat  primitive  style.  Gradually  the  people 
who  came  here  ostensibly  for  religious  exercises  made 
a  longer  and  more  permanent  occupation,  and,  without 
losing  its  ephemeral  character,  the  place  grew  and  de- 
manded more  substantial  accommodations.  The  spot 
is  very  attractive.  Although  the  shore  looks  to  the 
east,  and  does  not  get  the  prevailing  southern  breeze, 
and  the  beach  has  little  surf,  both  water  and  air  are 
mild,  the  bathing  is  safe  and  agreeable,  and  the  view 
of  the  illimitable  sea  dotted  with  sails  and  fishing-boats 
is  always  pleasing.  A  crowd  begets  a  crowd,  and  soon 
the  world's  people  made  a  city  larger  than  the  original 
one,  and  still  more  fantastic,  by  the  aid  of  paint  and 
the  jig-saw.  The  tent,  however,  is  the  type  of  all  the 
dwelling-houses.  The  hotels,  restaurants,  and  shops 
follow  the  usual  order  of  flamboyant  seaside  archi- 
tecture. After  a  time  the  Baptists  established  a  camp 
ground  on  the  bluffs  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  inlet. 
The  world's  people  brought  in  the  commercial  element 
in  the  way  of  fancy  shops  for  the  sale  of  all  manner 


Their  Pilgrimage. 

of  cheap  and  bizarre  "notions,"  and  introduced  the 
common  amusements.  And  so,  although  the  camp- 
meetings  do  not  begin  till  late  in  August,  this  city  of 
play-houses  is  occupied  the  summer  long.  The  shops 
and  shows  represent  the  taste  of  the  million,  and  al- 
though there  is  a  similarity  in  all  these  popular  coast 
watering-places,  each  has  a  characteristic  of  its  own. 
The  foreigner  has  a  considerable  opportunity  of  study- 
ing family  life,  whether  he  lounges  through  the  nar- 
row, sometimes  circular,  streets  by  night,  when  it  ap- 
pears like  a  fairy  encampment,  or  by  daylight,  when 
there  is  no  illusion.  It  seems  to  be  a  point  of  etiquette 
to  show  as  much  of  the  interiors  as  possible,  and  one 
can  learn  something  of  cooking  and  bed-making  and 
mending,  and  the  art  of  doing  up  the  back  hair.  The 
photographer  revels  here  in  pictorial  opportunities. 
The  pictures  of  these  bizarre  cottages,  with  the  family 
and  friends  seated  in  front,  show  very  serious  groups. 
One  of  the  Tabernacle — a  vast  iron  hood  or  dome 
erected  over  rows  of  benches  that  will  seat  two  or 
three  thousand  people — represents  the  building  when 
it  is  packed  with  an  audience  intent  upon  the  preacher. 
Most  of  the  faces  are  of  a  grave,  severe  type,  plain  and 
good,  of  the  sort  of  people  ready  to  die  for  a  notion. 
The  impression  of  these  photographs  is  that  these  peo- 
ple abandon  themselves  soberly  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
sea  and  of  this  packed,  gregarious  life,  and  get  solid 
enjoyment  out  of  their  recreation. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  on  the  coast,  the  greater  part  of 
the  population  consists  of  women  and  children,  and 
the  young  ladies  complain  of  the  absence  of  men — 
and,  indeed,  something  is  desirable  in  society  be- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  141 

sides    the    superannuated   and    the   boys    in    round- 
abouts. 

The  artist  and  Miss  Lamont,  in  search  of  the  pict- 
uresque, had  the  courage,  although  the  thermometer  was 
in  the  humor  to  climb  up  to  ninety  degrees,  to  explore 
the  Baptist  encampment.  They  were  not  rewarded 
by  anything  new  except  at  the  landing,  where,  behind 
the  bath-houses,  the  bathing  suits  were  hung  out  to 
dry,  and  presented  a  comical  spectacle^  the  humor  of 


v 


"A  CARICATURE  OF  HUMANITY/' 


which  seemed  to  be  lost  upon  all  except  themselves. 
It  was  such  a  caricature  of  humanity!  The  suits  hang- 
ing upon  the  line  and  distended  by  the  wind  presented 
the  appearance  of  headless,  bloated  forms,  fat  men  and 
fat  women  kicking  in  the  breeze,  and  vainly  trying  to 
climb  over  the  line.  It  was  probably  merely  fancy,  but 
they  declared  that  these  images  seemed  larger,  more 
bloated,  and  much  livelier  than  those  displayed  on 
the  Cottage  City  side.  When  travellers  can  be  en- 


LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  MARTHA'S  VINEYARD. 

tertained  by  trifles  of  this  kind  it  shows  that  there  is 
an  absence  of  more  serious  amusement.  And,  indeed, 
although  people  were  not  wanting,  and  music  was  in 


Their  Pilgrimage.  143 

the  air,  and  the  bicycle  and  tricycle  stable  was  well 
patronized  by  men  and  women,  and  the  noon  bathing 
was  well  attended,  it  was  evident  that  the  life  of  Cot- 
tage City  was  not  in  full  swing  by  the  middle  of  July. 

The  morning  on  which  our  tourists  took  the  steam- 
er for  Wood's  Holl  the  sea  lay  shimmering  in  the  heat, 
only  stirred  a  little  by  the  land  breeze,  and  it  needed 
all  the  invigoration  of  the  short  ocean  voyage  to  brace 
them  up  for  the  intolerably  hot  and  dusty  ride  in  the 
cars  through  the  sandy  part  of  Massachusetts.  So  long 
as  the  train  kept  by  the  indented  shore  the  route  was 
fairly  picturesque;  all  along  Buzzard  Bay  and  Onset 
Bay  and  Monument  Beach  little  cottages,  gay  with 
paint  and  fantastic  saw-work  explained,  in  a  measure, 
the  design  of  Providence  in  permitting  this  part  of  the 
world  to  be  discovered;  but  the  sandy  interior  had  to 
be  reconciled  to  the  deeper  divine  intention  by  a  trial 
of  patience  and  the  cultivation  of  the  heroic  virtues 
evoked  by  a  struggle  for  existence,  of  fitting  men  and 
women  for  a  better  country.  The  travellers  were  con- 
firmed, however,  in  their  theory  of  the  effect  of  a 
sandy  country  upon  the  human  figure.  This  is  not  a 
juicy  land,  if  the  expression  can  be  tolerated,  any  more 
than  the  sandy  parts  of  New  Jersey,  and  its  unsym- 
pathetic dry  ness  is  favorable  to  the  production — one 
can  hardly  say  development — of  the  lean,  enduring, 
flat-chested,  and  angular  style  of  woman. 

In  order  to  reach  Plymouth  a  wait  of  a  couple  of 
hours  was  necessary  at  one  of  the  sleepy  but  historic 
villages.  There  was  here  no  tavern,  no  restaurant, 
and  nobody  appeared  to  have  any  license  to  sell  any- 
thing for  the  refreshment  of  the  travellers.  But  at 


144  Their  Pilgrimage. 

some  distance  from  the  station,  in  a  two-roomed  dwell- 
ing-house, a  good  woman  was  found  who  was  willing 
to  cook  a  meal  of  victuals,  as  she  explained,  and  a  sign 
oil  her  front  door  attested,  she  had  a  right  to  do. 
What  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  local  prejudice  against 
letting  the  wayfaring  man  have  anything  to  eat  and 
drink  the  party  could  not  ascertain,  but  the  defiant  air 
of  the  woman  revealed  the  fact  that  there  was  such  a 
prejudice.  She  was  a  noble,  robust,  gigantic  specimen 
of  her  sex,  well  formed,  strong  as  an -ox,  with  a  resolute 
jaw,  and  she  talked,  through  tightly-closed  teeth,  in  an 
aggressive  manner.  Dinner  was  ordered,  and  the  party 
strolled  about  the  village  pending  its  preparation ;  but 
it  was  not  ready  when  they  returned.  "  I  ain't  goin' 
to  cook  no  victuals,"  the  woman  explained,  not  un- 
graciously, "till  I  know  folks  is  goin'  to  eat  it." 
Knowledge  of  the  world  had  made  her  justly  cautious. 
She  intended  to  set  out  a  good  meal,  and  she  had  the 
true  housewife's  desire  that  it  should  be  eaten,  that 
there  should  be  enough  of  it,  and  that  the  guests  should 
like  it.  When  she  waited  on  the  table  she  displayed 
a  pair  of  arms  that  would  discourage  any  approach  to 
familiarity,  and  disincline  a  timid  person  to  ask  twice 
for  pie;  but  in  point  of  fact,  as  soon  as  the  party  be- 
came her  bona-fide  guests,  she  was  royally  hospitable, 
and  only  displayed  anxiety  lest  they  should  not  eat 
enough. 

"  I  like  folks  to  be  up  and  down  and  square,"  she 
began  saying,  as  she  vigilantly  watched  the  effect  of 
her  culinary  skill  upon  the  awed  little  party.  "  Yes, 
I've  got  a  regular  hotel  license;  you  bet  I  have. 
There's  "been  folks  lawed  in  this  town  for  sellin'  a  meal 


ti  «• 


THE  MODEL  HUSBAND. 

of  victuals  and  not  having  one.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be 
taken  in  by  anybody.  I  warn't  raised  in  New  Hamp- 
shire to  be  scared  by  these  Massachusetts  folks.  No, 
I  hain't  got  a  girl  now.  I  had  one  a  spell,  but  I'd 
rather  do  my  own  work.  You  never  knew  what  a  girl 
was  doin'  or  would  do.  After  she'd  left  I  found  a 
broken  plate  tucked  into  the  ash-barrel.  Sho!  you 
can't  depend  on  a  girl.  Yes,  I've  got  a  husband.  It's 
easier  to  manage  him.  Well,  I  tell  you  a  husband  is 
10 


146  Their  Pilgrimage. 

better  than  a  girl.  When  you  tell  him  to  do  anything, 
you  know  it's  goin'  to  be  done.  He's  always  about, 
never  loafin'  round;  he  can  take  right  hold  and  wash 
dishes,  and  fetch  water,  and  anything." 

King  went  into  the  kitchen  after  dinner  and  saw  this 
model  husband,  who  had  the  faculty  of  making  him- 
self generally  useful,  holding  a  baby  on  one  arm,  and 
stirring  something  in  a  pot  on  the  stove  with  the  other. 
He  looked  hot  but  resigned.  There  has  been  so  much 
said  about  the  position  of  men  in  Massachusetts  that 
the  travellers  were  glad  of  this  evidence  that  husbands 
are  beginning  to  be  appreciated.  Under  proper  train- 
ing they  are  acknowledged  to  be  "better  than  girls." 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  they  reached  the  quiet 
haven  of  Plymouth — a  place  where  it  is  apparently 
always  afternoon,  a  place  of  memory  and  reminiscences, 
where  the  whole  effort  of  the  population  is  to  hear  and 
to  tell  some  old  thing.  As  the  railway  ends  there,  there 
is  no  danger  of  being  carried  beyond,  and  the  train 
slowly  ceases  motion,  and  stands  still  in  the  midst  of 
a  great  and  welcome  silence.  Peace  fell  upon  the 
travellers  like  a  garment,  and  although  they  had  as 
much  difficulty  in  landing  their  baggage  as  the  early 
Pilgrims  had  in  getting  theirs  ashore,  the  circumstance 
was  not  able  to  disquiet  them  much.  It  seemed  nat- 
ural that  their  trunks  should  go  astray  on  some  of  the 
inextricably  interlocked  and  branching  railways,  and 
they  had  no  doubt  that  when  they  had  made  the  tour 
of  the  state  they  would  be  discharged,  as  they  finally 
were,  into  this  cul-de-sac. 

The  Pilgrims  have  made  so  much  noise  in  the  world, 
and  so  powerfully  affected  the  continent,  that  our  tour- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  147 

ists  were  surprised  to  find  they  had  landed  in  such  a  quiet 
place,  and  that  the  spirit  they  have  left  behind  them 
is  one  of  such  tranquillity.  The  village  has  a  charm 
all  its  own.  Many  of  the  houses  are  old-fashioned  and 
square,  some  with  colonial  doors  and  porches,  irregularly 
aligned  on  the  main  street,  which  is  arched  by  ancient 
and  stately  elms.  In  the  spacious  door-yards  the  lindens 
have  had  room  and  time  to  expand,  and  in  the  beds  of 
bloom  the  flowers,  if  not  the  very  ones  that  our  grand- 
mothers planted,  are  the  sorts  that  they  loved.  Showing 
that  the  towrn  has  grown  in  sympathy  writh  human  needs 
and  eccentricities,  and  is  not  the  work  of  a  survey- 
or, the  streets  are  irregular,  forming  picturesque  an- 
gles and  open  spaces.  Nothing  could  be  imagined  in 
greater  contrast  to  a  Western  town,  and  a  good  part 
of  the  satisfaction  our  tourists  experienced  was  in  the 
absence  of  anything  Western  or  "  Queen  Anne  "  in  the 
architecture. 

In  the  Pilgrim  Hall — a  stone  structure  with  an  in- 
congruous wooden-pillared  front — they  came  into  the 
very  presence  of  the  early  worthies,  saw  their  portraits 
on  the  walls,  sat  in  their  chairs,  admired  the  solidity 
of  their  shoes,  and  imbued  themselves  with  the  spirit 
of  the  relics  of  their  heroic,  uncomfortable  lives.  In 
the  town  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  serenity  of 
mind  acquired  by  this  communion.  The  Puritan  in- 
terdict of  unseemly  excitement  still  prevailed,  and  the 
streets  were  silent;  the  artist,  who  could  compare  it 
with  the  placidity  of  Holland  towns,  declared  that  he 
never  walked  in  a  village  so  silent;  there  was  no  loud 
talking;  and  even  the  children  played  without  noise, 
like  little  Pilgrims.  God  bless  such  children,  and  in- 


148  Their  Pilgrimage. 

crease  their  numbers!  It  might  have  been  the  ap- 
proach of  Sunday — if  Sunday  is  still  regarded  in  east- 
ern Massachusetts — that  caused  this  hush,  for  it  was 
now  towards  sunset  on  Saturday,  and  the  inhabitants 
were  washing  the  fronts  of  the  houses  with  the  hose, 
showing  how  cleanliness  is  next  to  silence. 

Possessed  with  the  spirit  of  peace,  our  tourists,  whose 
souls  had  been  vexed  with  the  passions  of  many  water- 
ing-places, walked  down  Leyden  Street  (the  first  that 
was  laid  out),  saw  the  site  of  the  first  house,  and  turned 
round  Carver  Street,  walking  lingeringly,  so  as  not  to 
break  the  spell,  out  upon  the  hill — Cole's  Hill — where 
the  dead  during  the  first  fearful  winter  were  buried. 
This  has  been  converted  into  a  beautiful  esplanade, 
grassed  and  gravelled  and  furnished  with  seats,  and 
overlooks  the  old  wharves,  some  coal  schooners,  and 
shabby  buildings,  on  one  of  which  is  a  sign  informing 
the  reckless  that  they  can  obtain  there  clam-chowder 
and  ice-cream,  and  the  ugly,  heavy  granite  canopy  erect- 
ed over  the  "  Rock."  No  reverent  person  can  see  this 
rock  for  the  first  time  without  a  thrill  of  excitement. 
It  has  the  date  of  1620  cut  in  it,  and  it  is  a  good  deal 
cracked  and  patched  up,  as  if  it  had  been  much  landed 
on,  but  there  it  is,  and  there  it  will  remain  a  witness 
to  a  great  historic  event,  unless  somebody  takes  a  no- 
tion to  cart  it  off  uptown  again.  It  is  said  to  rest  on 
another  rock,  of  which  it  formed  a  part  before  its  un- 
fortunate journey,  and  that  lower  rock,  as  everybody 
knows,  rests  upon  the  immutable  principle  of  self-gov- 
ernment. The  stone  lies  too  far  from  the  water  to  en- 
able anybody  to  land  on  it  now,  and  it  is  protected 
from  vandalism  by  an  iron  grating.  The  sentiment  of 


Their  Pilgrimage.  149 

the  hour  was  disturbed  by  the  advent  of  the  members 
of  a  base-ball  nine,  who  wondered  why  the  Pilgrims 
did  not  land  on  the  wharf,  and,  while  thrusting  their 
feet  through  the  grating  in  a  commendable  desire  to 
touch  the  sacred  rock,  expressed  a  doubt  whether  the 
feet  of  the  Pilgrims  were  small  enough  to  slip  through 
the  grating  and  land  on  the  stone.  It  seems  that  there 
is  nothing  safe  from  the  irreverence  of  American 
youth. 

Has  any  other  coast  town  besides  Plymouth  had  the 
good  sense  and  taste  to  utilize  such  an  elevation  by  the 
water-side  as  an  esplanade?  It  is  a  most  charming 
feature  of  the  village,  and  gives  it  what  we  call  a 
foreign  air.  It  was  very  lovely  in  the  after-glow  and 
at  moonrise.  Staid  citizens  with  their  families  oc- 
cupied the  benches,  groups  were  chatting  under  the 
spreading  linden-tree  at  the  north  entrance,  and  young 
maidens  in  white  muslin  promenaded,  looking  seaward, 
as  was  the  wont  of  Puritan  maidens,  watching  a  re- 
ceding or  coming  Mayflower.  But  there  was  no  loud 
talking,  no  laughter,  no  outbursts  of  merriment  from 
the  children,  all  ready  to  be  transplanted  to  the  Puri- 
tan heaven!  It  was  high  tide,  and  all  the  bay  was 
silvery  with  a  tinge  of  color  from  the  glowing  sky. 
The  long,  curved  sand-spit — which  was  heavily  wooded 
when  the  Pilgrims  landed — was  silvery  also,  and  upon 
its  northern  tip  glowed  the  white  sparkle  in  the  light- 
house like  the  evening-star.  To  the  north,  over  the 
smooth  pink  water  speckled  with  white  sails,  rose 
Captain  Hill,  in  Duxbury,  bearing  the  monument  to 
Miles  Standish.  Clarke's  Island  (where  the  Pilgrims 
heard  a  sermon  on  the  first  Sunday),  Saguish  Point,  and 


"  LOOKING  SEAWARD,  AS  WAS  THE  WONT  OF  PUKITAN  MAIDENS. 

Gurnett  Headland  (showing  now  twin  white  lights)  ap- 
pear like  a  long  island  intersected  by  thin  lines  of  blue 
water.  The  effect  of  these  ribbons  of  alternate  sand 
and  water,  of  the  lights  and  the  ocean  (or  Great  Bay) 
beyond,  was  exquisite. 

Even  the  unobtrusive  tavern  at  the  rear  of  the  es- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  151 

planade,  ancient,  feebly  lighted,  and  inviting,  added 
something  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene.  The 
old  tree  by  the  gate — an  English  linden — illuminated 
by  the  street  lamps  and  the  moon,  had  a  mysterious  ap- 
pearance, and  the  tourists  were  not  surprised  to  learn 
that  it  has  a  romantic  history.  The  story  is  that  the 
twig  or  sapling  from  which  it  grew  was  brought  over 
from  England  by  a  lover  as  a  present  to  his  mistress, 
that  the  lovers  quarrelled  almost  immediately,  that  the 
girl  in  a  pet  threw  it  out  of  the  window  when  she  sent 
her  lover  out  of  the  door,  and  that  another  man  picked 
it  up  and  planted  it  where  it  now  grows.  The  legend 
provokes  a  good  many  questions.  One  would  like  to 
know  whether  this  was  the  first  case  of  female  rebel- 
lion in  Massachusetts  against  the  common-law  right  of 
a  man  to  correct  a  woman  with  a  stick  not  thicker 
than  his  little  finger — a  rebellion  which  has  resulted  in 
the  position  of  man  as  the  tourists 'saw  him  where  the 
New  Hampshire  Amazon  gave  them  a  meal  of  victuals; 
and  whether  the  girl  married  the  man  who  planted 
the  twig,  and,  if  so,  whether  he  did  not  regret  that  he 
had  not  kept  it  by  him. 

This  is  a  world  of  illusions.  By  daylight,  when  the 
tide  was  out,  the  pretty  silver  bay  of  the  night  before 
was  a  mud  flat,  and  the  tourists,  looking  over  it  from 
Monument  Hill,  lost  some  of  their  respect  for  the  Pil- 
grim sagacity  in  selecting  a  landing-place.  They  had 
ascended  the  hill  for  a  nearer  view  of  the  monument, 
King  with  a  reverent  wish  to  read  the  name  of  his 
Mayflower  ancestor  on  the  tablet,  the  others  in  a  spirit 
of  cold,  New  York  criticism,  for  they  thought  the 
structure,  which  is  still  unfinished,  would  look  uglier 


152  Their  Pilgrimage. 

near  at  hand  than  at  a  distance.  And  it  does.  It  is 
a  pile  of  granite  masonry  surmounted  by  symbolic 
figures. 

"  It  is  such  an  unsympathetic,  tasteless  -  looking 
thing!"  said  Miss  Lamont.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  the 
worst  in  the  country?" 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  say  that,"  replied  the  artist, 
"  when  the  competition  in  this  direction  is  so  lively. 
But  just  look  at  the  drawing  "  (holding  up  his  pencil 
with  which  he  had  intended  to  sketch  it).  "  If  it  were 
quaint,  now,  or  rude,  or  archaic,  it  might  be  in  keeping, 
but  bad  drawing  is  just  vulgar.  I  should  think  it  had 
been  designed  by  a  carpenter,  and  executed  by  a  stone- 
mason." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  Lamont,  who  always  fell  in 
with  the  most  abominable  opinions  the  artist  expressed; 
"  it  ought  to  have  been  made  of  wood,  and  painted  and 
sanded." 

"  You  will  please  remember,"  mildly  suggested  King, 
who  had  found  the  name  he  was  in  search  of,  "that 
you  are  trampling  on  my  ancestral  sensibilities,  as 
might  be  expected  of  those  who  have  no  ancestors  who 
ever  landed  or  ever  were  buried  anywhere  in  particu- 
lar. I  look  at  the  commemorative  spirit  rather  than 
the  execution  of  the  monument." 

"So  do  I,"  retorted  the  girl;  "and  if  the  Pilgrims 
landed  in  such  a  vulgar,  ostentatious  spirit  as  this,  I'm 
glad  my  name  is  not  on  the  tablet." 

The  party  were  in  a  better  mood  when  they  had 
climbed  up  Burial  Hill,  back  of  the  meeting-house,  and 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  convenient  benches  amid  the 
ancient  gravestones,  and  looked  upon  the  wide  and 


Their  Pilgrimage.  153 

magnificent  prospect.  A  soft  summer  wind  waved  a 
little  the  long  gray  grass  of  the  ancient  resting-place, 
and  seemed  to  whisper  peace  to  the  weary  generation 
that  lay  there.  What  struggles,  what  heroisms,  the 
names  on  the  stones  recalled!  Here  had  stood  the 
first  fort  of  1620,  and  here  the  watch-tower  of  1642, 
from  the  top  of  which  the  warder  espied  the  lurking 
savage,  or  hailed  the  expected  ship  from  England. 
How  much  of  history  this  view  recalled,  and  what 
pathos  of  human  life  these  graves  made  real.  Read 
the  names  of  those  buried  a  couple  of  centuries  ago — 
captains,  elders,  ministers,  governors,  wives  well  be- 
loved, children  a  span  long,  maidens  in  the  blush  of 
womanhood — half  the  tender  inscriptions  are  illegible; 
the  stones  are  broken,  sunk,  slanting  to  fall.  What  a 
pitiful  attempt  to  keep  the  world  mindful  of  the  de- 
parted! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ME.  STANHOPE  KING  was  not  in  very  good  spirits. 
Even  Boston  did  not  make  him  cheerful.  He  was  half 
annoyed  to  see  the  artist  and  Miss  Lamont  drifting 
along  in  such  laughing  good-humor  with  the  world,  as 
if  a  summer  holiday  was  just  a  holiday  without  any 
consequences  or  responsibilities.  It  was  to  him  a  seri- 
ous affair  ever  since  that  unsatisfactory  note  from  Miss 
Benson;  somehow  the  summer  had  lost  its  sparkle. 
And  yet  was  it  not  preposterous  that  a  girl,  just  a  sin- 
gle girl,  should  have  the  power  to  change  for  a  man 
the  aspect  of  a  whole  coast — by  her  presence  to  make  it 
iridescent  with  beauty,  and  by  her  absence  to  take  all 
the  life  out  of  it?  And  a  simple  girl  from  Ohio!  She 
was  not  by  any  means  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Newport 
Casino  that  morning,  but  it  was  her  figure  that  he  re- 
membered, and  it  was  the  look  of  hurt  sensibility  in  her 
eyes  that  stayed  with  him.  He  resented  the  attitude  of 
the  Casino  towards  her,  and  he  hated  himself  for  his 
share  in  it.  He  would  write  to  her.  He  composed 
letter  after  letter  in  his  mind,  which  he  did  not  put  on 
paper.  How  many  millions  of  letters  are  composed  in 
this  way!  It  is  a  favorite  occupation  of  imaginative 
people;  and  as  they  say  that  no  thoughts  or  mental 
impressions  are  ever  lost,  but  are  all  registered — made, 
as  it  were,  on  a  "  dry-plate,"  to  be  developed  hereafter — 


Their  Pilgrimage.  155 

what  a  vast  correspondence  must  be  lying  in  the  next 
world,  in  the  Dead-letter  Office  there,  waiting  for  the 
persons  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  who  will  all  receive 
it  and  read  it  some  day!  How  unpleasant  and  absurd 
it  Avill  be  to  read,  much  of  it!  I  intend  to  be  careful, 
for  my  part,  about  composing  letters  of  this  sort  here- 
after. Irene,  I  dare  say,  will  find  a  great  many  of  them 
from  Mr.  King,  thought  out  in  those  days.  But  he 
mailed  none  of  them  to  her.  What  should  he  say? 
Should  he  tell  her  that  he  didn't  mind  if  her  parents 
were  what  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  called  "  impossible  "  ?  If 
he  attempted  any  explanation,  would  it  not  involve  the 
offensive  supposition  that  his  social  rank  was  different 
from  hers  ?  Even  if  he  convinced  her  that  he  recog- 
nized no  caste  in  American  society,  what  could  remove 
from  her  mind  the  somewhat  morbid  impression  that 
her  education  had  put  her  in  a  false  position?  His 
love  probably  could  not  shield  her  from  mortification 
in  a  society  which,  though  indefinable  in  its  limits  and 
code,  is  an  entity  more  vividly  felt  than  the  govern- 
ment of  the  United  States. 

"  Don't  you  think  the  whole  social  atmosphere  has 
changed,"  Miss  Lamont  suddenly  asked,  as  they  were 
running  along  in  the  train  towards  Manchester-by-the- 
Sea,  "  since  we  got  north  of  Boston  ?  I  seem  to  find 
it  so.  Don't  you  think  it's  more  refined,  and,  don't 
you  know,  sort  of  cultivated,  and  subdued,  and  Bos- 
ton ?  You  notice  the  gentlemen  who  get  out  at  all 
these  stations,  to  go  to  their  country-houses,  how  high- 
ly civilized  they  look,  and  ineffably  respectable  and 
intellectual,  all  of  them  presidents  of  colleges,  and  sub- 
stantial bank  directors,  and  possible  ambassadors,  and 


156  Their  Pilgrimage. 

of  a  social  cult  (isn't  that  the  word  ?)  uniting  brains 
and  gentle  manners." 

"  You  must  have  been  reading  the  Boston  newspa- 
pers; you  have  hit  the  idea  prevalent  in  these  parts, 
at  any  rate.  I  was,  however,  reminded  myself  of  an 
afternoon  train  out  of  London,  say  into  Surrey,  on 
which  you  are  apt  to  encounter  about  as  high  a  type 
of  civilized  men  as  anywhere." 

"  And  you  think  this  is  different  from  a  train  out  of 
New  York?"  asked  the  artist. 

"Yes.  New  York  is  more  mixed.  No  one  train 
has  this  kind  of  tone.  You  see  there  more  of  the 
broker  type  and  politician  type,  smarter  apparel  and 
nervous  manners,  but,  dear  me,  not  this  high  moral  and 
intellectual  respectability." 

"Well,"  said  the  artist,  "I'm  changing  my  mind 
about  this  country.  I  didn't  expect  so  much  variety. 
I  thought  that  all  the  watering-places  would  be  pretty 
much  alike,  and  that  we  should  see  the  same  people 
everywhere.  But  the  people  are  quite  as  varied  as  the 
scenery." 

"  There  you  touch  a  deep  question — the  refining  or 
the  vulgarizing  influence  of  man  upon  nature,  and  the 
opposite.  Now,  did  the  summer  Bostonians  make  this 
coast  refined,  or  did  this  coast  refine  the  Bostonians 
who  summer  here  ?" 

"  Well,  this  is  primarily  an  artistic  coast;  I  feel  the 
influence  of  it;  there  is  a  refined  beauty  in  all  the  lines, 
and  residents  have  not  vulgarized  it  much.  But  I 
wonder  what  Boston  could  have  done  for  the  Jersey 
coast  ?" 

In  the  midst  of  this  high  and  useless  conversation 


Their  Pilgrimage.  157 

they  came  to  the  Masconomo  House,  a  sort  of  conces- 
sion, in  this  region  of  noble  villas  and  private  parks,  to 
the  popular  desire  to  get  to  the  sea.  It  is  a  long,  low 
house,  with  very  broad  passages  below  and  above, 
which  give  lightness  and  cheerfulness  to  the  interior, 
and  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the  entrance  hall  has  a 
fireplace.  The  pillars  of  the  front  and  back  piazzas 
are  pine  stems  stained,  with  the  natural  branches 
cut  in  unequal  lengths,  and  look  like  the  stumps 
for  the  bears  to  climb  in  the  pit  at  Berne.  Set  up 
originally  with  the  bark  on,  the  worms  worked  un- 
derneath it  in  secret,  at  a  novel  sort  of  decoration,  un- 
til the  bark  came  off  and  exposed  the  stems  most  beau- 
tifully vermiculated,  giving  the  effect  of  fine  carving. 
Back  of  the  house  a  meadow  slopes  down  to  a  little 
beach  in  a  curved  bay  that  has  rocky  headlands,  and 
is  defended  in  part  by  islands  of  rock.  The  whole  as- 
pect of  the  place  is  peaceful.  The  hotel  does  not  as- 
sert itself  very  loudly,  and  if  occasionally  transient 
guests  appear  with  flash  manners,  they  do  not  affect 
the  general  tone  of  the  region. 

One  finds,  indeed,  nature  and  social  life  happily 
blended,  the  exclusiveness  being  rather  protective  than 
offensive.  The  special  charm  of  this  piece  of  coast  is 
that  it  is  bold,  much  broken  and  indented,  precipices 
fronting  the  waves,  promontories  jutting  out,  high 
rocky  points  commanding  extensive  views,  wild  and 
picturesque,  and  yet  softened  by  color  and  graceful 
shore  lines,  and  the  forest  comes  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  sea.  And  the  occupants  have  heightened  rather 
than  lessened  this  picture'squeness  by  adapting  their 
villas  to  a  certain  extent  to  the  rocks  and  inequalities 


158  Their  Pilgrimage. 

in  color  and  form,  and  by  means  of  roads,  allees,  and 
vistas  transforming  the  region  into  a  lovely  park. 

Here,  as  at  Newport,  is  cottage  life,  but  the  contrast 
of  the  two  places  is  immense.  There  is  here  no  at- 
tempt at  any  assembly  or  congregated  gayety  or  dis- 
play. One  would  hesitate  to  say  that  the  drives  here 
have  more  beauty,  but  they  have  more  variety.  They 
seem  endless,  through  odorous  pine  woods  and  shady 
lanes,  by  private  roads  among  beautiful  villas  and  ex- 
quisite grounds,  with  evidences  everywhere  of  wealth 
to  be  sure,  but  of  individual  taste  and  refinement. 
How  sweet  and  cool  are  these  winding  ways  in  the 
wonderful  woods,  overrun  with  vegetation,  the  bay- 
berry,  the  sweet-fern,  the  wild  roses,  wood-lilies,  and 
ferns !  and  it  is  ever  a  fresh  surprise  at  a  turn  to 
find  one's  self  so  near  the  sea,  and  to  open  out  an  en- 
trancing coast  view,  to  emerge  upon  a  promontory  and  a 
sight  of  summer  isles,  of  lighthouses,  cottages,  villages 
— Marblehead,  Salem,  Beverly.  What  a  lovely  coast! 
and  how  wealth  and  culture  have  set  their  seal  on  it. 

It  possesses  essentially  the  same  character  to  the 
north,  although  the  shore  is  occasionally  higher  and 
bolder,  as  at  the  picturesque  promontory  of  Magnolia, 
and  Cape  Ann  exhibits  more  of  the  hotel  and  popular 
life.  But  to  live  in  one's  own  cottage,  to  choose  his 
calling  and  dining  acquaintances,  to  make  the  long 
season  contribute  something  to  cultivation  in  literature, 
;art,  music — to  live,  in  short,  rather  more  for  one's  self 
than  for  society — seems  the  increasing  tendency  of  the 
men  of  fortune  who  can  afford  to  pay  as  much  for  an 
acre  of  rock  and  sand  at  Manchester  as  would  build  a 
decent  house  elsewhere.  The  tourist  does  not  com- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  159 

plain  of  this,  and  is  grateful  that  individuality  has  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  great  variety  of  lovely  homes,  in 
cottages  very  different  from  those  on  the  Jersey  coast, 
showing  more  invention,  and  good  in  form  and  color. 

There  are  New-Yorkers  at  Manchester,  and  Bostoni- 
ans  at  Newport;  but  who  was  it  that  said  New  York 
expresses  itself  at  Newport,  and  Boston  at  Manchester 
and  kindred  coast  settlements?  This  may  be  only 
fancy.  Where  intellectual  life  keeps  pace  with  the 
accumulation  of  wealth,  society  is  likely  to  be  more 
natural,  simpler,  less  tied  to  artificial  rules,  than  where 
wealth  runs  ahead.  It  happens  that  the  quiet  social 
life  of  Beverly,  Manchester,  and  that  region  is  delight- 
ful, although  it  is  a  home  rather  than  a  public  life. 
Nowhere  else  at  dinner  and  at  the  chance  evening  mu- 
sicale  is  the  foreigner  more  likely  to  meet  sensible  men 
who  are  good  talkers,  brilliant  and  witty  women  who 
have  the  gift  of  being  entertaining,  and  to  have  the 
events  of  the  day  and  the  social  and  political  problems 
more  cleverly  discussed.  What  is  the  good  of  wealth 
if  it  does  not  bring  one  back  to  freedom,  and  the  ability 
to  live  naturally  and  to  indulge  the  finer  tastes  in  va- 
cation-time ? 

After  all,  King  reflected,  as  the  party  were  on  their 
way  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  what  was  it  that  had  most 
impressed  him  at  Manchester  ?  Was  it  not  an  evening 
spent  in  a  cottage  amid  the  rocks,  close  by  the  water, 
in  the  company  of  charming  people  ?  To  be  sure, 
there  were  the  magical  reflection  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  bay,  the  points  of  light  from  the  cottages  on 
the  rocky  shore,  the  hum  and  swell  of  the  sea,  and  all 
the  mystery  of  the  shadowy  headlands;  but  this  was 


160  Their  Pilgrimage. 

only  a  congenial  setting  for  the  music,  the  witty  talk, 
the  free  play  of  intellectual  badinage  and  seriousness, 
and  the  simple  human  cordiality  that  were  worth  all 
the  rest. 

What  a  kaleidoscope  it  is,  this  summer  travel,  and 
what  an  entertainment,  if  the  tourist  can  only  keep 
his  "  impression  plates  "  fresh  to  take  the  new  scenes, 
and  not  sink  into  the  state  of  chronic  grumbling  at 
hotels  and  minor  discomforts  !  An  interview  at  a 
ticket-office,  a  whirl  of  an  hour  on  the  rails,  and  lo  ! 
Portsmouth,  anchored  yet  to  the  colonial  times  by  a 
few  old  houses,  and  resisting  with  its  respectable  pro- 
vincialism the  encroachments  of  modern  smartness, 
and  the  sleepy  wharf  in  the  sleepy  harbor,  where  the 
little  steamer  is  obligingly  waiting  for  the  last  passen- 
ger, for  the  very  last  woman,  running  with  a  bandbox 
in  one  hand,  and  dragging  a  jerked,  fretting  child  by 
the  other  hand,  to  make  the  hour's  voyage  to  the  Isles 
of  Shoals. 

(The  shrewd  reader  objects  to  the  bandbox  as  an 
anachronism:  it  is  no  longer  used.  If  I  were  writing 
a  novel,  instead  of  a  veracious  chronicle,  I  should  not 
have  introduced  it,  for  it  is  an  anachronism.  But  I 
was  powerless,  as  a  mere  narrator,  to  prevent  the  wom- 
an coming  aboard  with  her  bandbox.  "No  one  but  a 
trained  novelist  can  make  a  long-striding,  resolute, 
down-East  woman  conform  to  his  notions  of  conduct 
and  fashion.) 

If  a  young  gentleman  were  in  love,  and  the  object 
of  his  adoration  were  beside  him,  he  could  not  have 
chosen  a  lovelier  day  nor  a  prettier  scene  than  this  in 


THE   LAST  PASSENGER. 

which  to  indulge  his  happiness;  and  if  he  were  in  love, 
and  the  object  absent,  he  could  scarcely  find  a  situa- 
tion fitter  to  nurse  his  tender  sentiment.  Doubtless 
there  is  a  stage  in  love  when  scenery  of  the  very  best 
quality  becomes  inoperative.  There  was  a  couple  on 
11 


162  Their  Pilgrimage. 

board,  seated  in  front  of  the  pilot-house,  who  let  the 
steamer  float  along  the  pretty,  long,  land  -  locked  har- 
bor, past  the  Kittery  Navy-yard,  and  out  upon  the  blue 
sea,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  anything  but 
each  other.  They  were  on  a  voyage  of  their  own, 
Heaven  help  them!  probably  without  any  chart,  a  voy- 
age of  discovery,  just  as  fresh  and  surprising  as  if  they 
were  the  first  who  ever  took  it.  It  made  no  difference 
to  them  that  there  was  a  personally  conducted  excur- 
sion party  on  board,  going,  they  said,  to  the  Oceanic 
House  on  Star  Island,  who  had  out  their  maps  and 
guide-books  and  opera-glasses,  and  wrung  the  last 
drop  of  the  cost  of  their  tickets  out  of  every  foot 
of  the  scenery.  Perhaps  it  was  to  King  a  more  senti- 
mental journey  than  to  anybody  else,  because  he  in- 
voked his  memory  and  his  imagination,  and  as  the  love- 
ly shores  opened  or  fell  away  behind  the  steamer  in 
ever-shifting  forms  of  beauty,  the  scene  was  in  har- 
mony with  both  his  hope  and  his  longing.  As  to 
Marion  and  the  artist,  they  freely  appropriated  and 
enjoyed  it.  So  that  mediaeval  structure,  all  tower, 
growing  out  of  the  rock,  is  Stedman's  Castle — just 
like  him,  to  let  his  art  spring  out  of  nature  in  that 
way.  And  that  is  the  famous  Kittery  Navy-yard  ! 

"  What  do  they  do  there,  uncle  ?"  asked  the  girl,  af- 
ter scanning  the  place  in  search  of  dry-docks  and  ves- 
sels and  the  usual  accompaniments  of  a  navy-yard. 

"  Oh,  they  make  '  repairs,'  principally  just  before  an 
election.  It  is  very  busy  then." 

"  What  sort  of  repairs  ?" 

"  Why,  political  repairs ;  they  call  them  naval  in  the 
department.  They  are  always  getting  appropriations 


Their  Pilgrimage.  163 

for  them.     I  suppose  that  this  country  is  better  off 
for  naval  repairs  than  any  other  country  in  the  world," 

"  And  they  are  done  here  ?" 

"No;  they  are  done  in  the  department.  Here  is 
where  the  voters  are.  You  see,  we  have  a  political 
navy.  It  costs  about  as  much  as  those  navies  that  have 
ships  and  guns,  but  it  is  more  in  accord  with  the  peace- 
ful spirit  of  the  age.  Did  you  never  hear  of  the  lead- 
ing case  of  '  repairs '  of  a  government  vessel  here  at 
Kittery  ?  The  *  repairs '  were  all  done  here,  at  Ports- 
mouth, New  Hampshire;  the  vessel  lay  all  the  time  at 
Portsmouth,  Virginia.  How  should  the  department 
know  that  there  were  two  places  of  the  same  name  ? 
It  usually  intends  to  have  ' repairs '  and  the  vessel  in 
the  same  navy-yard." 

The  steamer  was  gliding  along  over  smooth  water 
towards  the  seven  blessed  isles,  which  lay  there  in  the 
sun,  masses  of  rock  set  in  a  sea  sparkling  with  diamond 
points.  There  were  two  pretty  girls  in  the  pilot-house, 
and  the  artist  thought  their  presence  there  accounted 
for  the  serene  voyage,  for  the  masts  of  a  wrecked 
schooner  rising  out  of  the  shallows  to  the  north  re- 
minded him  that  this  is  a  dangerous  coast.  But  he 
said  the  passengers  would  have  a  greater  sense  of  secur- 
ity if  the  usual  placard  (for  the  benefit  of  the  captain) 
was  put  up:  "No  flirting  with  the  girl  at  the  wheel." 

At  a  distance  nothing  could  be  more  barren  than 
these  islands,  which  Captain  John  Smith  and  their 
native  poet  have  enveloped  in  a  halo  of  romance,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  steamer  was  close  to  it  that  any 
landing-place  was  visible  on  Appledore,  the  largest  of 
the  group. 


164 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


The  boat  turned  into  a  pretty  little  harbor  among 
the  rocks,  and  the  settlement  was  discovered:  a  long, 
low,  old-fashioned  hotel  with  piazzas,  and  a  few  cot- 
tages, perched  on  the  ledges,  the  door-yards  of  which 
were  perfectly  ablaze  with  patches  of  flowers,  mass- 
es of  red,  yellow,  purple — poppies,  marigolds,  nastur- 
tiums, bachelor's-buttons,  lovely  splashes  of  color 
against  the  gray  lichen-covered  rock.  At  the  landing 


A   MINIATURE   HARBOR. 


is  an  interior  miniature  harbor,  walled  in,  and  safe 
for  children  to  paddle  about  and  sail  on  in  tiny  boats. 
The  islands  offer  scarcely  any  other  opportunity  for 
bathing,  unless  one  dare  take  a  plunge  off  the  rocks. 

Talk  of  the  kaleidoscope  !  At  a  turn  of  the  wrist,  as 
it  were,  the  elements  of  society  had  taken  a  perfectly 
novel  shape  here.  Was  it  only  a  matter  of  grouping 
and  setting,  or  were  these  people  different  from  all 


Their  Pilgrimage.  165 

others  the  tourists  had  seen?  There  was  a  lively 
scene  in  the  hotel  corridor,  the  spacious  office  with  its 
long  counters  and  post-office,  when  the  noon  mail  was 
opened  and  the  letters  called  out.  So  many  pretty 
girls,  with  pet  dogs  of  all  degrees  of  ugliness  (dear  lit- 
tle objects  of  affection  overflowing  and  otherwise  run- 
ning to  waste — one  of  the  most  pathetic  sights  in  this 
sad  world),  jaunty  suits  with  a  nautical  cut,  for  boat- 
ing and  rock-climbing,  family  groups,  so  much  anima- 
tion and  excitement  over  the  receipt  of  letters,  so  much 
well-bred  chaffing  and  friendliness,  such  an  air  of  re- 
finement and  "  style,"  but  withal  so  homelike.  These 
people  were  "guests"  of  the  proprietors,  who  never- 
theless felt  a  sort  of  proprietorship  themselves  in  the 
little  island,  and  were  very  much  like  a  company  to- 
gether at  sea.  For  living  on  this  island  is  not  un- 
like being  on  shipboard  at  sea,  except  that  this  rock 
does  not  heave  about  in  a  nauseous  way. 

Mr.  King  discovered  by  the  register  that  the  Ben- 
sons  had  been  here  (of  all  places  in  the  world,  he 
thought  this  would  be  the  ideal  one  for  a  few  days 
with  her),  and  Miss  Lamont  had  a  letter  from  Irene, 
which  she  did  not  offer  to  read. 

"  They  didn't  stay  long,"  she  said,  as  Mr.  King 
seemed  to  expect  some  information  out  of  the  letter, 
"  and  they  have  gone  on  to  Bar  Harbor.  I  should  like 
to  stop  here  a  week;  wouldn't  you?" 

"  Ye-e-s,"  trying  to  recall  the  mood  he  was  in  before 
he  looked  at  the  register;  "but  —  but"  (thinking  of 
the  words  "gone  on  to  Bar  Harbor")  "it  is  a  place, 
after  all,  that  you  can  see  in  a  short  time — go  all  over 
it  in  half  a  day." 


166  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  But  you  want  to  sit  about  on  the  rocks,  and  look 
at  the  sea,  and  dream." 

"  I  can't  dream  on  an  island — not  on  a  small  island. 
It's  too  cooped  up;  you  get  a  feeling  of  being  a  pris- 
oner." 

"  I  suppose  you  wish  *  that  little  isle  had  wings,  and 
you  and  I  within  its  shady — ' " 

"  There's  one  thing  I  will  not  stand,  Miss  Lamont, 
and  that's  Moore.  Come,  let's  go  to  Star  Island." 

The  party  went  in  the  tug  Pinafore,  which  led  a 
restless,  fussy  life,  puffing  about  among  these  islands, 
making  the  circuit  of  Appledore  at  fixed  hours,  and 
acting  commonly  as  a  ferry.  Star  Island  is  smaller 
than  Appledore  and  more  barren,  but  it  has  the  big 
hotel  (and  a  different  class  of  guests  from  those  on 
Appledore),  and  several  monuments  of  romantic  inter- 
est. There  is  the  ancient  stone  church,  rebuilt  some 
time  in  this  century;  there  are  some  gravestones;  there 
is  a  monument  to  Captain  John  Smith,  the  only  one 
existing  anywhere  to  that  interesting  adventurer  —  a 
triangular  shaft,  with  a  long  inscription  that  could  not 
have  been  more  eulogistic  if  he  had  composed  it  him- 
self. There  is  something  pathetic  in  this  lonely  monu- 
ment when  we  recall  Smith's  own  touching  allusion  to 
this  naked  rock,  on  which  he  probably  landed  when 
he  ronce  coasted  along  this  part  of  New  England,  as 
being  his  sole  possession  in  the  world  at  the  end  of 
his  adventurous  career: 

"  No  lot  for  me  but  Smith's  Isles,  which  are  an  array 
of  barren  rocks,  the  most  overgrown  with  shrubs  and 
sharpe  whins  you  can  hardly  pass  them  ;  without 
either  grasse  or  wood,  but  three  or  foure  short  shrubby 
old  cedars." 


168  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Every  tourist  goes  to  the  south  end  of  Star  Island, 
and  climbs  down  on  the  face  of  the  precipice  to  the 
"  Chair,"  a  niche  where  a  school-teacher  used  to  sit  as 
long  ago  as  1848.  She  was  sitting  there  one  day  when 
a  wave  came  up  and  washed  her  away  into  the  ocean. 
She  disappeared.  But  she  who  loses  her  life  shall  save 
it.  That  one  thoughtless  act  of  hers  did  more  for  her 
reputation  than  years  of  faithful  teaching,  than  all  her 
beauty,  grace,  and  attractions.  Her  "  Chair"  is  a  point 
of  pilgrimage.  The  tourist  looks  at  it,  guesses  at  its 
height  above  the  water,  regards  the  hungry  sea  with 
aversion,  re-enacts  the  drama  in  his  imagination,  sits  in 
the  chair,  has  his  wife  sit  in  it,  has  his  boy  and  girl  sit 
in  it  together,  wonders  what  the  teacher's  name  was, 
stops  at  the  hotel  and  asks  the  photograph  girl,  who 
does  not  know,  and  the  proprietor,  who  says  it's  in  a 
book  somewhere,  and  finally  learns  that  it  was  Under- 
hill,  and  straightway  forgets  it  when  he  leaves  the 
island. 

What  a  delicious  place  it  is,  this  Appledore,  when 
the  elements  favor !  The  party  were  lodged  in  a 
little  cottage,  whence  they  overlooked  the  hotel  and 
the  little  harbor,  and  could  see  all  the  life  of  the 
place,  looking  over  the  bank  of  flowers  that  draped  the 
rocks  of  the  door-yard.  How  charming  was  the  min- 
iature pond,  with  the  children  sailing  round  and  round, 
and  the  girls  in  pretty  costumes  bathing,  and  sunlight 
lying  so  warm  upon  the  greenish-gray  rocks  !  But  the 
night,  following  the  glorious  after-glow,  the  red  sky, 
all  the  level  sea,  and  the  little  harbor  burnished  gold, 
the  rocks  purple — oh  !  the  night,  when  the  moon 
came  !  Oh,  Irene  !  Great  heavens  !  why  will  this 


Their  Pilgrimage.  169 

world  fall  into  such  a  sentimental  fit,  when  all  the 
sweetness  and  the  light  of  it  are  away  at  Bar  Har- 
bor! 

Love  and  moonlight,  and  the  soft  lapse  of  the  waves 
and  singing?  Yes,  there  are  girls  down  by  the  land- 
ing with  a  banjo,  and  young  men  singing  the  songs  of 
love,  the  modern  songs  of  love  dashed  with  college 
slang.  The  banjo  suggests  a  little  fastness;  and  this 
new  generation  carries  off  its  sentiment  with  some 
bravado  and  a  mocking  tone.  Presently  the  tug  Pin- 
afore glides  up  to  the  landing,  the  engineer  flings  open 
the  furnace  door,  and  the  glowing  fire  illumines  the 
interior,  brings  out  forms  and  faces,  and  deepens  the 
heavy  shadows  outside.  It  is  like  a  cavern  scene  in 
the  opera.  A  party  of  ladies  in  white  come  down  to 
^  cross  to  Star.  Some  of  these  insist  upon  climbing  up 
to  the  narrow  deck,  to  sit  on  the  roof  and  enjoy  the 
moonlight  and  the  cinders.  Girls  like  to  do  these 
things,  which  are  more  unconventional  than  hazard- 
ous, at  watering-places. 

What  a  wonderful  effect  it.  is,  the  masses  of  rock, 
water,  sky,  the  night,  all  details  lost  in  simple  lines 
and  forms!  On  the  piazza  of  the  cottage  is  a  group 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  poses  more  or  less  graceful; 
one  lady  is  in  a  hammock;  on  one  side  is  the  moon- 
light, on  the  other  come  gleams  from  the  curtained 
windows  touching  here  and  there  a  white  shoulder,  or 
lighting  a  lovely  head ;  the  Arines  running  up  on  strings 
and  half  enclosing  the  piazza  make  an  exquisite  tra- 
cery against  the  sky,  and  cast  delicate  shadow  patterns 
on  the  floor;  all  the  time  music  within,  the  piano,  the 
violin,  and  the  sweet  waves  of  a  woman's  voice  sing- 


170 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


ing  the  songs  of  Schubert,  floating  out  upon  the  night. 
A  soft  wind  blows  out  of  the  west. 

The  northern  part  of  Appledore  Island  is  an  inter- 
esting place  to  wander.  There  are  no  trees,  but  the 
plateau  is  far  from  barren.  The  gray  rocks  crop  out 
among  bayberry  and  huckleberry  bushes,  and  the  wild 
rose,  very  large  and  brilliant  in  color,  fairly  illumi- 
nates the  landscape,  massing  its  great  bushes.  Amid 


"A  NOOK  TO  DREAM  IN  AND  MAKE  LOVE  IN." 

the  chaotic  desert  of  broken  rocks  farther  south  are 
little  valleys  of  deep  green  grass,  gay  with  roses.  On 
the  savage  precipices  at  the  end  one  may  sit  in  view 
of  an  extensive  sweep  of  coast  with  a  few  hills,  and 
of  other  rocky  islands,  sails,  and  ocean-going  steamers. 
Here  are  many  nooks  and  hidden  corners  to  dream  in 
and  make  love  in,  the  soft  sea  air  being  favorable  to 
that  soft-hearted  occupation. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  171 

One  could  easily  get  attached  to  the  place,  if  duty 
and  Irene  did  not  call  elsewhere.  Those  who  dwell 
here  the  year  round  find  most  satisfaction  when  the 
summer  guests  have  gone  and  they  are  alone  with 
freaky  nature.  "  Yes,"  said  the  woman  in  charge  of 
one  of  the  cottages,  "I've  lived  here  the  year  round 
for  sixteen  years,  and  I  like  it.  After  we  get  fixed 
up  comfortable  for  winter,  kill  a  critter,  have  pigs, 
and  make  my  own  sassengers,  then  there  ain't  any 
neighbors  comin'  in,  and  that's  what  I  like." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  attraction  of  Bar  Harbor  is  in  the  union  of 
mountain  and  sea;  the  mountains  rise  in  granite  maj- 
esty right  out  of  the  ocean.  The  traveller  expects  to 
find  a  repetition  of  Mount  Athos  rising  six  thousand 
feet  out  of  the  ^Egean. 

The  Bar-Harborers  made  a  mistake  in  killing — if 
they  did  kill — the  stranger  who  arrived  at  this  resort 
from  the  mainland,  and  said  it  would  be  an  excellent 
sea-and-mountain  place  if  there  were  any  mountains 
or  any  sea  in  sight.  Instead,  if  they  had  taken  him 
in  a  row-boat  and  pulled  him  out  through  the  islands, 
far  enough,  he  would  have  had  a  glimpse  of  the  ocean, 
and  if  then  he  had  been  taken  by  the  cog-railway  sev- 
enteen hundred  feet  to  the  top  of  Green  Mountain,  he 
would  not  only  have  found  himself  on  firm,  rising 
ground,  but  he  would  have  been  obliged  to  confess 
that,  with  his  feet  upon  a  solid  mountain  of  granite, 
he  saw  innumerable  islands  and,  at  a  distance,  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  ocean.  He  would  have  repented 
his  hasty  speech.  In  two  days  he  would  have  been  a 
partisan  of  the  place,  and  in  a  week  he  would  have 
been  an  owner  of  real  estate  there. 

There  is  undeniably  a  public  opinion  in  Bar  Harbor 
in  favor  of  it,  and  the  visitor  would  better  coincide 
with  it.  He  is  anxiously  asked  at  every  turn  how  he 


Their  Pilgrimage.  173 

likes  it,  and  if  he  does  not  like  it  he  is  an  object  of 
compassion.  Countless  numbers  of  people  who  do  not 
own  a  foot  of  land  there  are  devotees  of  the  place. 
Any  number  of  certificates  to  its  qualities  could  be  ob- 
tained, as  to  a  patent  medicine,  and  they  would  all 
read  pretty  much  alike,  after  the  well  -  known  for- 
mula :  "  The  first  bottle  I  took  did  me  no  good,  after 
the  second  I  was  worse,  after  the  third  I  improved, 
after  the  twelfth  I  walked  fifty  miles  in  one  day ;  and 
now  I  never  do  without  it,  I  take  never  less  than  fifty 
bottles  a  year."  So  it  would  be :  "At  first  I  felt  just 
as  you  do,  shut-in  place,  foggy,  stayed  only  two  days. 
Only  came  back  again  to  accompany  friends,  stayed  a 
week,  foggy,  didn't  like  it.  Can't  tell  how  I  happened 
to  come  back  again,  stayed  a  month,  and  I  tell  you, 
there  is  no  place  like  it  in  America.  Spend  all  my 
summers  here." 

The  genesis  of  Bar  Harbor  is  curious  and  instruc- 
tive. For  many  years,  like  other  settlements  on  Mount 
Desert  Island,  it  had  been  frequented  by  people  who 
have  more  fondness  for  nature  than  they  have  money, 
and  who  were  willing  to  put  up  with  wretched  accom- 
modations, and  enjoyed  a  mild  sort  of  "  roughing  it." 
But  some  society  people  in  New  York,  who  have  the 
reputation  of  setting  the  mode,  chanced  to  go  there ; 
they  declared  in  favor  of  it;  and  instantly,  by  an  oc- 
cult law  which  governs  fashionable  life,  Bar  Harbor 
became  the  fashion.  Everybody  could  see  its  pre- 
eminent attractions.  The  word  was  passed  along  by 
the  Boudoir  Telephone  from  Boston  to  New  Orleans, 
and  soon  it  was  a  matter  of  necessity  for  a  debutante, 
or  a  woman  of  fashion,  or  a  man  of  the  world,  or  a 


174  Their  Pilgrimage. 

blase  boy,  to  show  themselves  there  during  the  season. 
It  became  the  scene  of  summer  romances ;  the  student 
of  manners  went  there  to  study  the  "American  girl." 
The  notion  spread  that  it  was  the  finest  sanitarium  on 
the  continent  for  flirtations;  and  as  trade  is  said  to 
follow  the  flag,  so  in  this  case  real-estate  speculation 
rioted  in  the  wake  of  beauty  and  fashion. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  "  American  girl "  is  there, 
as  she  is  at  divers  other  sea-and-land  resorts  ;  but  the 
present  peculiarity  of  this  watering-place  is  that  the 
American  young  man  is  there  also.  Some  philosophers 
have  tried  to  account  for  this  coincidence  by  assuming 
that  the  American  girl  is  the  attraction  to  the  young 
man.  But  this  seems  to  me  a  misunderstanding  of  the 
spirit  of  this  generation.  Why  are  young  men  quoted 
as  "  scarce  "  in  other  resorts  swarming  with  sweet  girls, 
maidens  who  have  learned  the  art  of  being  agreeable, 
and  interesting  widows  in  the  vanishing  shades  of  an 
attractive  and  consolable  grief  ?  No.  Is  it  not  rather 
the  cold,  luminous  truth  that  the  American  girl  found 
out  that  Bar  Harbor,  without  her  presence,  was  for  cer- 
tain reasons,  such  as  unconventionality,  a  bracing  air, 
opportunity  for  boating,  etc.,  agreeable  to  the  young 
man?  But  why  do  elderly  people  go  there?  This 
question  must  have  been  suggested  by  a  foreigner,  who 
is  ignorant  that  in  a  republic  it  is  the  young  ones  who 
know  what  is  best  for  the  elders. 

Our  tourists  passed  a  weary,  hot  day  on  the  coast 
railway  of  Maine.  Notwithstanding  the  high  tem- 
perature, the  country  seemed  cheerless,  the  sunlight  to 
fall  less  genially  than  in  more  fertile  regions  to  the 
south,  upon  a  landscape  stripped  of  its  forests,  naked, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  175 

and  unpicturesque.  Why  should  the  little  white 
houses  of  the  prosperous  little  villages  on  the  line  of 
the  rail  seem  cold  and  suggest  winter,  and  the  land 
seem  scrimped  and  without  an  atmosphere  ?  It  chanced 
so,  for  everybody  knows  that  it  is  a  lovely  coast.  The 
artist  said  it  was  the  Maine  Law.  But  that  could  not 
be,  for  the  only  drunken  man  encountered  on  their  tour 
they  saw  at  the  Bangor  Station,  where  beer  was  fur- 
tively sold. 

They  were  plunged  into  a  cold  bath  on  the  steamer 
in  the  half -hour's  sail  from  the  end  of  the  rail  to  Bar 
Harbor.  The  wind  was  fresh,  white-caps  enlivened 
the  scene,  the  spray  dashed  over  the  huge  pile  of  bag- 
gage on  the  bow,  the  passengers  shivered,  and  could 
little  enjoy  the  islands  and  the  picturesque  shore,  but 
fixed  eyes  of  hope  upon  the  electric  lights  which 
showed  above  the  headlands,  and  marked  the  site  of 
the  hotels  and  the  town  in  the  hidden  harbor.  Spits 
of  rain  dashed  in  their  faces,  and  in  some  discomfort 
they  came  to  the  wharf,  which  was  alive  with  vehicles 
and  tooters  for  the  hotels.  In  short,  with  its  lights 
and  noise,  it  had  every  appearance  of  being  an  im- 
portant place,  and  when  our  party,  holding  on  to  their 
seats  in  a  buck-board,  were  whirled  at  a  gallop  up  to 
Rodick's,  and  ushered  into  a  spacious  office  swarming 
with  people,  they  realized  that  they  were  entering 
upon  a  lively  if  somewhat  hap-hazard  life.  The  first 
confused  impression  was  of  a  bewildering  number  of 
slim,  pretty  girls,  nonchalant  young  fellows  in  lawn- 
tennis  suits,  and  indefinite  opportunities  in  the  halls 
and  parlors  and  wide  piazzas  for  promenade  and  flir- 
tations. 


ON   THE   PIAZZA  AT   RODICK'S. 

Rodick's  is  a  sort  of  big  boarding-house,  hesitating 
whether  to  be  a  hotel  or  not,  no  bells  in  the  rooms,  no 
bills  of  fare  (or  rarely  one),  no  wine-list,  a  go-as-you- 
please,  help-yourself  sort  of  place,  which  is  popular 
because  it  has  its  own  character,  and  everybody  drifts 
into  it  first  or  last.  Some  say  it  is  an  acquired  taste; 
that  people  do  not  take  to  it  at  first.  The  big  office 
is  a  sort  of  assembly-room,  where  new  arrivals  are 
scanned  and  discovered,  and  it  is  unblushingly  called 
the  "  fish-pond  "  by  the  young  ladies  who  daily  angle 
there.  Of  the  unconventional  ways  of  the  establishment 
Mr.  King  had  an  illustration  when  he  attempted  to  get 
some  washing  done.  Having  read  a  notice  that  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  177 

hotel  had  no  laundry,  he  was  told,  on  applying  at  the 
office,  that  if  he  would  bring  his  things  down  there  they 
would  try  to  send  them  out  for  him.  Not  being  ac- 
customed to  carrying  about  soiled  clothes,  he  declined 
this  proposal,  and  consulted  a  chambermaid.  She  told 
him  that  ladies  came  to  the  house  every  day  for  the 
washing,  and  that  she  would  speak  to  one  of  them. 
No  result  following  this,  after  a  day  King  consulted 
the  proprietor,  and  asked  him  point  blank,  as  a  friend, 
what  course  he  would  pursue  if  he  were  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  having  washing  done  in  that  region.  The 
proprietor  said  that  Mr.  King's  wants  should  be  at- 
tended to  at  once.  Another  day  passed  without  action, 
when  the  chambermaid  was  again  applied  to.  "  There's 
a  lady  just  come  in  to  the  hall  I  guess  will  do  it." 

"Is  she  trustworthy?" 

"  Don't  know,  she  washes  for  the  woman  in  the  room 
next  to  you."  And  the  lady  was  at  last  secured. 

Somebody  said  that  those  who  were  accustomed  to 
luxury  at  home  liked  Rodick's,  and  that  those  who  were 
not  grumbled.  And  it  was  true  that  fashion  for  the 
moment  elected  to  be  pleased  with  unconventionality, 
finding  a  great  zest  in  freedom,  and  making  a  joke  of 
every  inconvenience.  Society  will  make  its  own  rules, 
and  although  there  are  several  other  large  hotels,  and 
good  houses  as  watering-place  hotels  go,  and  cottage- 
life  here  as  elsewhere  is  drawing  away  its  skirts  from 
hotel  life,  society  understood  why  a  person  might  elect 
to  stay  at  Rodick's.  Bar  Harbor  has  one  of  the  most 
dainty  and  refined  little  hotels  in  the  world — the  Mal- 
vern.  Any  one  can  stay  there  who  is  worth  two  mill- 
ions of  dollars,  or  can  produce  a  certificate  from  the 
12 


178  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Recorder  of  New  York  that  he  is  a  direct  descendant 
of  Hendrick  Hudson  or  Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  it  was  built  by  a  Philadelphian 
— that  is  to  say  one  born  with  a  genius  for  hotel-keep- 
ing. But  though  a  guest  at  the  Malvern  might  not 
eat  with  a  friend  at  Rodick's,  he  will  meet  him  as  a 
man  of  the  world  on  friendly  terms. 

Bar  Harbor  was  indeed  an  interesting  society  study. 
Except  in  some  of  the  cottages,  it  might  be  said  that 
society  was  on  a  lark.  With  all  the  manners  of  the 
world  and  the  freemasonry  of  fashionable  life,  it  had 
elected  to  be  unconventional.  The  young  ladies  liked 
to  appear  in  nautical  and  lawn-tennis  toilet,  carried  so 
far  that  one  might  refer  to  the  "  cut  of  their  jib,"  and 
their  minds  were  not  much  given  to  any  elaborate 
dressing  for  evening.  As  to  the  young  gentlemen,  if 
there  were  any  dress-coats  on  the  island,  they  took 
pains  not  to  display  them,  but  delighted  in  appearing 
in  the  evening  promenade,  and  even  in  the  ballroom, 
in  the  nondescript  suits  that  made  them  so  conspicuous 
in  the  morning,  the  favorite  being  a  dress  of  stripes, 
with  striped  jockey  cap  to  match,  that  did  not  suggest 
the  penitentiary  uniform,  because  in  state-prisons  the 
stripes  run  round.  This  neglige  costume  was  adhered 
to  even  in  the  ballroom.  To  be  sure,  the  ballroom 
was  little  frequented,  only  an  adventurous  couple  now 
and  then  gliding  over  the  floor,  and  affording  scant 
amusement  to  the  throng  gathered  on  the  piazza  and 
about  the  open  windows.  Mrs.  Montrose,  a  stately 
dame  of  the  old  school,  whose  standard  was  the  court 
in  the  days  of  Calhoun,  Clay,  and  Webster,  disap- 
proved of  this  laxity,  and  when  a  couple  of  young  fel- 


lows  in  striped  array  one  evening  whirled  round  the 
room  together,  with  brier-wood  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
she  was  scandalized.  If  the  young  ladies  shared  her 
sentiments  they  made  no  resolute  protests,  remember- 
ing perhaps  the  scarcity  of  young  men  elsewhere,  and 
thinking  that  it  is  better  to  be  loved  by  a  lawn-tennis 
suit  than  not  to  be  loved  at  all.  The  daughters  of 
Mrs.  Montrose  thought  they  should  draw  the  line  on 
the  brier-wood  pipe. 

Dancing,  however,  is  not  the  leading  occupation  at 
Bar  Harbor,  it  is  rather  neglected.  A  cynic  said  that 
the  chief  occupation  was  to  wait  at  the  "  fish-pond  " 


180  Their  Pilgrimage. 

for  new  arrivals — the  young  ladies  angling  while  their 
mothers  and  chaperons — how  shall  we  say  it  to  com- 
plete the  figure  ? — held  the  bait.  It  is  true  that  they 
did  talk  in  fisherman's  lingo  about  this,  asked  each 
other  if  they  had  a  nibble  or  a  bite,  or  boasted  that  they 
had  hauled  one  in,  or  complained  that  it  was  a  poor 
day  for  fishing.  But  this  was  all  chaff,  born  of  youth- 
ful spirits  and  the  air  of  the  place.  If  the  young  men 
took  airs  upon  themselves  under  the  impression  they 
were  in  much  demand,  they  might  have  had  their 
combs  cut  if  they  had  heard  how  they  were  weighed 
and  dissected  and  imitated,  and  taken  off  as  to  their 
peculiarities,  and  known,  most  of  them,  by  sobri- 
quets characteristic  of  their  appearance  or  pretensions. 
There  was  one  young  man  from  the  West,  who  would 
have  been  flattered  with  the  appellation  of  "  dude,"  so 
attractive  in  the  fit  of  his  clothes,  the  manner  in  which 
he  walked  and  used  his  cane  and  his  eyeglass,  that 
Mr.  King  wanted  very  much  to  get  him  and  bring  him 
away  in  a  cage.  He  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  a  fa- 
vorite with  every  circle  and  wanted  in  every  group, 
and  the  young  ladies  did  seem  to  get  a  great  deal  of 
entertainment  out  of  him.  He  was  not  like  the  young 
man  in  the  Scriptures  except  that  he  was  credited  with 
having  great  possessions. 

No,  the  principal  occupation  at  Bar  Harbor  was  not 
fishing  in  the  house.  It  was  out-door  exercise,  inces- 
sant activity  in  driving,  walking,  boating — rowing  and 
sailing — bowling,  tennis,  and  flirtation.  There  was 
always  an  excursion  somewhere,  by  land  or  sea,  water- 
melon parties,  races  in  the  harbor  in  which  the  girls 
took  part,  drives  in  buck-boards  which  they  organized 


182  Their  Pilgrimage. 

— indeed,  the  canoe  and  the  buck-board  were  in  con- 
stant demand.  In  all  this  there  was  a  pleasing  free- 
dom— of  course  under  proper  chaperonage.  And  such 
delightful  chaperons  as  they  were,  their  business  being 
to  promote  and  not  to  hinder  the  intercourse  of  the 
sexes! 

This  activity,  this  desire  to  row  and  walk  and  drive 
and  to  become  acquainted,  was  all  due  to  the  air.  It 
has  a  peculiar  quality.  Even  the  skeptic  has  to  admit 
this.  It  composes  his  nerves  to  sleep,  it  stimulates  to 
unwonted  exertion.  The  fanatics  of  the  place  declare 
that  the  fogs  are  not  damp  as  at  other  resorts  on  the 
coast.  Fashion  can  make  even  a  fog  dry.  But  the 
air  is  delicious.  In  this  latitude,  and  by  reason  of  the 
hills,  the  atmosphere  is  pure  and  elastic  and  stimulat- 
ing, and  it  is  softened  by  the  presence  of  the  sea. 
This  union  gives  a  charming  effect.  It  is  better,  than 
the  Maine  Law.  The  air  being  like  wine,  one  does 
not  need  stimulants.  If  one  is  addicted  to  them  and 
is  afraid  to  trust  the  air,  he  is  put  to  the  trouble  of 
sneaking  into  masked  places,  and  becoming  a  party  to 
petty  subterfuges  for  evading  the  law.  And  the 
wretched  man  adds  to  the  misdemeanor  of  this  eva- 
sion the  moral  crime  of  consuming  bad  liquor. 

"  Everybody  "  was  at  Bar  Harbor,  or  would  be  there 
in  course  of  the  season.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  there, 
and  Mrs.  Pendragon  of  New  Orleans,  one  of  the  most 
brilliant,  amiable,  and  charming  of  women.  I  re- 
member her  as  far  back  as  the  seventies.  A  young 
man  like  Mr.  King,  if  he  could  be  called  young,  could 
not  have  a  safer  and  more  sympathetic  social  adviser. 
Why  are  not  all  handsome  women  cordial,  good-tern- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  183 

pered,  and  well-bred!  And  there  were  the  Ashleys — 
clever  mother  and  three  daughter,  au-fait  girls,  racy 
and  witty  talkers;  I  forget  whether  they  were  last 
from  Paris,  Washington,  or  San  Francisco.  Family 
motto — "Don't  be  dull."  All  the  Van  Dams  from 
New  York,  and  the  Sleiderheifers  and  Mulligrubs  of 
New  Jersey,  were  there  for  the  season,  some  of  them 
in  cottages.  These  families  are  intimate,  even  con- 
nected by  marriage,  with  the  Bayardiers  of  South 
Carolina  and  the  Lontoons  of  Louisiana.  The  girls 
are  handsome,  dashing  women,  without  much  informa- 
tion, but  rattling  talkers,  and  so  exclusive!  and  the 
young  men,  with  a  Piccadilly  air,  fancy  that  they  be- 
long to  the  "Prince  of  Wales  set,"  you  know.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  monarchical  simplicity  in  our  hetero- 
genous  society. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  wras  quite  in  her  element  here  as  di- 
rector-general of  expeditions  and  promoter  of  social 
activity.  "  I  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  was  kind 
enough  to  say  to  Mr.  King  the  morning  after  his  ar: 
rival.  "  Kitty  Van  Sanford  spied  you  last  night,  and 
exclaimed,  *  There,  now,  is  a  real  reinforcement!'  You 
see  that  you  are  mortgaged  already." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  expect  me.  Is  there  any- 
body else  here  I  know  ?" 

"Several  hundreds,  I  should  say.     If   you   cannot 
find  friends  here,  you  are  a  subject  for  an  orphan- 
asylum.     And  you  have  not  seen  anybody  ?" 
"  Well,  I  was  late  at  breakfast." 
"  And  you  have  not  looked  on  the  register  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  did  run  my  eye  over  the  register." 
"  And  you  are  standing  right  before  me  and  trying 


184:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

to  look  as  if  you  did  not  know  that  Irene  Benson  is  in 
the  house.  I  didn't  think,  Mr.  King,  it  had  gone  that 
far — indeed  I  didn't.  You  know  I'm  in  a  manner  re- 
sponsible for  it.  And  I  heard  all  about  you  at  New- 
port. She's  a  heart  of  gold,  that  girl." 

"Did  she — did  Miss  Benson  say  anything  about 
Newport  ?" 

"  No.     Why  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  but  she  might  have  mentioned 
how  she  liked  it." 

"  I  don't  think  she  liked  it  as  much  as  her  mother 
did.  Mrs.  Benson  talks  of  nothing  else.  Irene  said 
nothing  special  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  she  may 
have  said  to  Mr.  Meigs,"  this  wily  woman  added,  in  the 
most  natural  manner. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Meigs  ?" 

"  Mr.  Alfred  Meigs,  Boston.  He  is  a  rich  widower, 
about  forty — the  most  fascinating  age  for  a  widower, 
you  know.  I  think  he  is  conceited,  but  he  is  really  a 
most  entertaining  man ;  has  travelled  all  over  the  world 
— Egypt,  Persia — lived  in  Japan,  prides  himself  a  little 
on  never  having  been  in  Colorado  or  Florida." 

"  What  does  he  do  ?" 

"  Do  ?  He  drives  Miss  Benson  to  Otter  Cliffs,  and 
out  on  the  Cornice  Road,  about  seven  days  in  the  week, 
and  gets  up  sailing-parties  and  all  that  in  the  intervals." 

"  I  mean  his  occupation." 

"Isn't  that  occupation  enough?  Well,  he  has  a 
library  and  a  little  archa3ological  museum,  and  prints 
monographs  on  art  now  and  then.  If  he  were  a  New- 
Yorker,  you  know,  he  would  have  a  yacht  instead  of  a 
library.  There  they  are  now." 


Their  Pilgrimage.  185 

.V  carriage  with  a  pair  of  spirited  horses  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  steps  on  the  entrance  side.  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt  and  King  turned  the  corner  of  the  piazza  and 
walked  that  way.  On  the  back  seat  were  Mrs.  Ben- 
soil  and  Mrs.  Simpkins.  The  gentleman  holding  the 
reins  was  just  helping  Irene  to  the  high  seat  in  front. 
Mr.  King  was  running  down  the  long  flight  of  steps. 
Mrs.  Benson  saw  him,  bowed  most  cordially,  and  called 
his  name.  Irene,  turning  quickly,  also  bowed  —  he 
thought  there  was  a  flush  on  her  face.  The  gentle- 
man, in  the  act  of  starting  the  horses,  raised  his  hat. 
King  was  delighted  to  notice  that  he  was  bald.  He 
had  a  round  head,  snugly  -  trimmed  beard  slightly 
dashed  with  gray,  was  short  and  a  trifle  stout — King 
thought  dumpy.  "  I  suppose  women  like  that  kind  of 
man,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Cortlandt  when  the  carriage  was 
out  of  sight. 

"Why  not?  He  has  perfect  manners;  he  knows 
the  world — that  is  a  great  point,  I  can  tell  you,  in  the 
imagination  of  a  girl;  he  is  rich;  and  he  is  no  end 
obliging." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here  ?" 

"Several  days.  They  happened  to  come  up  from 
the  Isles  of  Shoals  together.  He  is  somehow  related 
to  the  Simpkinses.  There!  I've  wasted  time  enou'gh 
on  you.  I  must  go  and  see  Mrs.  Pendragon  about  a 
watermelon  party  to  Jordan  Pond.  You'll  see,  I'll  ar- 
range something." 

King  had  no  idea  what  a  watermelon  party  was,  but 
he  was  pleased  to  think  that  it  was  just  the  sort  of 
thing  that  Mr.  Meigs  would  shine  in.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  he  hated  dilettante  snobs.  His  bitter  reflec- 


186  Their  Pilgrimage. 

tions  were  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Miss  La- 
mont  and  the  artist,  and  with  them  Mr.  Benson.  The 
men  shook  hands  with  downright  heartiness.  Here  is 
a  genuine  man,  King  was  thinking. 

"  Yes.  We  are  still  at  it,"  he  said,  with  his  humor- 
ous air  of  resignation.  "I  tell  my  wife  that  I'm  be- 
ginning to  understand  how  old  Christian  felt  going 
through  Vanity  Fair.  We  ought  to  be  pretty  near 
the  Heavenly  Gates  by  this  time.  I  reckoned  she 
thought  they  opened  into  Newport.  She  said  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  to  ridicule  the  Bible.  I  had  to  have 
my  joke.  It's  queer  how  different  the  world  looks  to 
women." 

"  And  how  does  it  look  to  men  ?"  asked  Miss  La- 
mont. 

"  Well,  my  dear  young  lady,  it  looks  like  a  good  deal 
of  fuss,  and  tolerably  large  bills." 

"  But  what  does  it  matter  about  the  bills  if  you  en- 
joy yourself  ?" 

"  That's  just  it.  Folks  work  harder  to  enjoy  them- 
selves than  at  anything  else  I  know.  Half  of  them 
spend  more  money  than  they  can  afford  to,  and  keep 
under  the  harrow  all  the  time,  just  because  they  see 
others  spend  money." 

"  I  saw  your  wife  and  daughter  driving  away  just 
now,"  said  King,  shifting  the  conversation  to  a  more 
interesting  topic. 

"Yes.  They  have  gone  to  take  a  ride  over  what 
they  call  here  the  Cornneechy.  It's  a  pretty  enough 
road  along  the  bay,  but  Irene  says  it's  about  as  much 
like  the  road  in  Europe  they  name  it  from  as  Green 
Mountain  is  like  Mount  Blanck.  Our  folks  seem  pos- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  187 

sessed  to  stick  a  foreign  name  on  to  everything.  And 
the  road  round  througli  the  scrub  to  Eagle  Lake  they 
call  Norway.  If  Norway  is  like  that,  it's  pretty  short 
of  timber.  If  there  hadn't  been  so  much  lumbering 
here,  I  should  like  it  better.  There  is  hardly  a  decent 
pine-tree  left.  Mr.  Meigs  —  they  have  gone  riding 
with  Mr.  Meigs — says  the  Maine  government  ought  to 
have  a  Maine  law  that  amounts  to  something — one  that 
will  protect  the  forests,  and  start  up  some  trees  on  the 
coast." 

"Is  Mr.  Meigs  in  the  lumber  business?"  asked 
King. 

"  Only  for  scenery,  I  guess.  He  is  great  on  scenery. 
He's  a  Boston  man.  I  tell  the  women  that  he  is  what 
I  call  a  bric-er-brac  man.  But  you  come  to  set  right 
down  with  him,  away  from  women,  and  he  talks  just 
as  sensible  as  anybody.  He  is  shrewd  enough.  It 
beats  all  how  men  are  with  men  and  with  women." 

Mr.  Benson  was  capable  of  going  on  in  this  way  all 
day.  But  the  artist  proposed  a  walk  up  to  Newport, 
and  Mr.  King  getting  Mrs.  Pendragon  to  accompany 
them,  the  party  set  out.  It  is  a  very  agreeable  climb 
up  Newport,  and  not  difficult;  but  if  the  sun  is  out, 
one  feels,  after  scrambling  over  the  rocks  and  walking 
home  by  the  dusty  road,  like  taking  a  long  pull  at  a 
cup  of  shandygaff.  The  mountain  is  a  solid  mass  of 
granite,  bare  on  top,  and  commands  a  noble  view  of 
islands  and  ocean,  of  the  gorge  separating  it  from 
Green  Mountain,  and  of  that  respectable  hill.  For  this 
reason,  because  it  is  some  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
lower  than  Green  Mountain,  and  includes  that  scarred 
eminence  in  its  view,  it  is  the  most  picturesque  and 


CLIMBING   UP  NEWPORT. 


pleasing  elevation  on  the  island.  It  also  has  the  recom- 
mendation of  being  nearer  to  the  sea  than  its  sister 
mountain.  On  the  south  side,  by  a  long  slope,  it  comes 
nearly  to  the  water,  and  the  longing  that  the  visitor  to 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


189 


Bar  Harbor  lias  to  see  the  ocean  is  moderately  grati- 
fied.    The  prospect  is  at  once  noble  and  poetic. 

Mrs.  Pendragon  informed  Mr.  King  that  he  and  Miss 
Lamont  and  Mr.  Forbes  were  included  in  the  water- 
melon party  that  was  to  start  that  afternoon  at  five 
o'clock.  The  plan  was  for  the  party  to  go  in  buck- 
boards  to  Eagle  Lake,  cross  that  in  the  steamer,  scram- 
ble on  foot  over  the  "  carry  "  to  Jordan  Pond,  take 
row-boats  to  the  foot  of  that,  and  find  at  a  farmhouse 


A   BAR   HARBOR  BUCK-BOARD. 

there  the  watermelons  and  other  refreshments,  which 
would  be  sent  by  the  shorter  road,  and  then  all  re- 
turn by  moonlight  in  the  buck-boards. 

This  plan  was  carried  out.  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  Mrs. 
Pendragon,  and  Mrs.  Simpkins  were  to  go  as  chaperons, 
and  Mr.  Meigs  had  been  invited  by  Mrs.  Cortlandt, 
King  learned  to  his  disgust,  also  to  act  as  a  chaperon. 
All  the  proprieties  are  observed  at  Bar  Harbor.  Half 
a  dozen  long  buck-boards  were  loaded  with  their  merry 
freight.  At  the  last  Mrs.  Pendragon  pleaded  a  head- 


190  Their  Pilgrimage. 

ache,  and  could  not  go.  Mr.  King  was  wandering 
about  among  the  buck-boards  to  find  an  eligible  seat. 
He  was  not  put  in  good-humor  by  finding  that  Mr. 
Meigs  had  ensconced  himself  beside  Irene,  and  he  was 
about  crowding  in  with  the  Ashley  girls — not  a  bad 
fate — :when  word  was  passed  down  the  line  from  Mrs. 
Cortlandt,  who  was  the  autocrat  of  the  expedition,  that 
Mr.  Meigs  was  to  come  back  and  take  a  seat  with  Mrs. 
Simpkins  in  the  buck-board  with  the  watermelons. 
She  could  not  walk  around  the  "  carry  ;"  she  must  go 
by  the  direct  road,  and  of  course  she  couldn't  go  alone. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  and  Mr.  Meigs,  looking  as 
cheerful  as  an  undertaker  in  a  healthy  season,  got  down 
from  his  seat  and  trudged  back.  Thus  two  chaperons 
were  disposed  of  at  a  stroke,  and  the  young  men  all 
said  that  they  hated  to  assume  so  much  responsibility. 
Mr.  King  didn't  need  prompting  in  this  emergency;  the 
wagons  were  already  moving,  and  before  Irene  knew 
exactly  what  had  happened,  Mr.  King  was  begging  her 
pardon  for  the  change,  and  seating  himself  beside  her. 
And  he  was  thinking,  "  What  a  confoundedly  clever 
woman  Mrs.  Cortlandt  is  !" 

There  is  an  informality  about  a  buck-board  that 
communicates  itself  at  once  to  conduct.  The  exhila- 
ration of  the  long  spring-board,  the  necessity  of  hold- 
ing on  to  something  or  somebody  to  prevent  being 
tossed  overboard,  put  occupants  in  a  larkish  mood  that 
they  might  never  attain  in  an  ordinary  vehicle.  All 
this  was  favorable  to  King,  and  it  relieved  Irene  from 
an  embarrassment  she  might  have  felt  in  meeting  him 
under  ordinary  circumstances.  And  King  had  the  tact 
to  treat  himself  and  their  meeting  merely  as  accidents. 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


191 


"  The  American  youth  seem  to  have  invented  a 
novel  way  of  disposing  of  chaperons,"  he  said.  "  To 
send  them  in  one  direction  and  the  party  chaperoned 
in  another  is  certainly  original." 

"  I'm  not  sure  the  chaperons  like  it.  And  I  doubt 
if  it  is  proper  to  pack  them  off  by  themselves,  especially 
when  one  is  a  widow  and  the  other  is  a  widower." 

"  It's  a  case  of  chaperon  eat  chaperon.  I  hope  your 
friend  didn't  mind  it.  I  had  nearly  despaired  of  find- 
ing a  seat." 

"Mr.  Meigs?  He  did  not  say  he  liked  it,  but  he  is 
the  most  obliging  of  men." 

"I  suppose  you  have  pretty  well  seen  the  island?" 

"  We  have  driven  about  a  good  deal.    We  have  seen 


INDIAN   VILLAGE,  BAR  HARBOR. 


192  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Southwest  Harbor,  and  Somes's  Sound  and  Schooner 
Head,  and  the  Ovens  and  Otter  Cliffs — there's  no  end 
of  things  to  see;  it  needs  a  month.  I  suppose  you 
have  been  up  Green  Mountain  ?" 

"No.     I  sent  Mr.  Forbes." 

"  You  ought  to  go.  It  saves  buying  a  map.  Yes, 
I  like  the  place  immensely.  You  mustn't  judge  of  the 
variety  here  by  the  table  at  Rodick's.  I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  a  place  on  the  coast  that  compares  with 
it  in  interest;  I  mean  variety  of  effects  and  natural 
beauty.  If  the  writers  wouldn't  exaggerate  so,  talk 
about '  the  sublimity  of  the  mountains  challenging  the 
eternal  grandeur  of  the  sea'!" 

"Don't  use  such  strong  language  there  on  the  back 
seat,"  cried  Miss  Lament.  "  This  is  a  pleasure  party. 
Mr.  Van  Dusen  wants  to  know  why  Maud  S.  is  like  a 
salamander  ?" 

"  He  is  not  to  be  gratified,  Marion.  If  it  is  conun- 
drums, I  shall  get  out  and  walk." 

Before  the  conundrum  was  guessed,  the  volatile  Van 
Dusen  broke  out  into,  "Here's  a  how  d'e  do!"  One 
of  the  Ashley  girls  in  the  next  wagon  caught  up  the 
word  with,  "Here's  a  state  of  things!"  and  the  two 
buck-boards  went  rattling  down  the  hill  to  Eagle  Lake 
in  a  "Mikado"  chorus. 

"  The  Mikado  troupe  seems  to  have  got  over  here  in 
advance  of  Sullivan,"  said  Mr.  King  to  Irene.  "I  hap- 
pened to  see  the  first  representation." 

"  Oh,  half  these  people  were  in  London  last  spring. 
They  give  you  the  impression  that  they  just  run  over  to 
the  States  occasionally.  Mr.  Van  Dusen  says  he  keeps 
his  apartments  in  whatever  street  it  is  off  Piccadilly, 
it's  so  much  more  convenient." 


Their  Pilgrimage.  193 

On  the  steamer  crossing  the  lake,  King  hoped  for 
an  opportunity  to  make  an  explanation  to  Irene.  But 
when  the  opportunity  came  he  found  it  very  difficult 
to  tell  what  it  was  he  wanted  to  explain,. and  so  blun- 
dered on  in  commonplaces. 

"You  like  Bar  Harbor  so  well,"  he  said,  "that  I 
suppose  your  father  will  be  buying  a  cottage  here  ?" 

"Hardly.  Mr.  Meigs"  (King  thought  there  was 
too  much  Meigs  in  the  conversation)  "said  that  he 
had  once  thought  of  doing  so,  but  he  likes  the  place 
too  well  for  that.  He  prefers  to  come  here  voluntarily. 
The  trouble  about  owning  a  cottage  at  a  watering- 
place  is  that  it  makes  a  duty  of  a  pleasure.  You  can 
always  rent,  father  says.  He  has  noticed  that  usually 
when  a  person  gets  comfortably  established  in  a  sum- 
mer cottage  he  wants  to  rent  it." 

"  And  you  like  it  better  than  Newport  ?" 

"  On  some  accounts — the  air,  you  know,  and — " 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  breaking  in  most  il- 
logically — "  I  want  to  tell  you,  Miss  Benson,  that  it 
was  all  a  wretched  mistake  at  Newport  that  morning. 
I  don't  suppose  you  care,  but  I'm  afraid  you  are  not 
quite  just  to  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  was  unjust."  The  girl's  voice  was 
low,  and  she  spoke  slowly.  "You  couldn't  help  it. 
We  can't  any  of  us  help  it.  We  cannot  make  the 
world  over,  you  know."  And  she  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  faint  little  smile. 

"  But  you  didn't  understand.     I  didn't  care  for  any 
of  those  people.     It  was  just  an  accident.    Won't  you 
believe  me?    I  do  not  ask  much.     But  I  cannot  have 
you  think  I'm  a  coward." 
13 


194  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  I  never  did,  Mr.  King.  Perhaps  you  do  not  see 
what  society  is  as  I  do.  People  think  they  can  face 
it  when  they  cannot.  I  can't  say  what  I  mean,  and  I 
think  we'd  better  not  talk  about  it." 

The  boat  was  landing;  and  the  party  streamed  up 
into  the  woods,  and  with  jest  and  laughter  and  feigned 
anxiety  about  danger  and  assistance,  picked  its  way 
over  the  rough,  stony  path.  It  was  such  a  scramble 
as  young  ladies  enjoy,  especially  if  they  are  city  bred, 
for  it  seems  to  them  an  achievement  of  more  magni- 
tude than  to  the  country  lasses  who  see  nothing  un- 
common or  heroic  in  following  a  cow  path.  And  the 
young  men  like  it  because  it  brings  out  the  trusting, 
dependent,  clinging  nature  of  girls.  King  wished  it 
had  been  five  miles  long  instead  of  a  mile  and  a  half. 
It  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  show  his  helpful,  con- 
siderate spirit.  It  was  necessary  to  take  her  hand  to 
help  her  over  the  bad  spots,  and  either  the  bad  spots 
increased  as  they  went  on,  or  Irene  was  deceived  about 
it.  What  makes  a  path  of  this  sort  so  perilous  to  a 
woman's  heart  ?  Is  it  because  it  is  an  excuse  for  doing 
what  she  longs  to  do  ?  Taking  her  hand  recalled  the 
day  on  the  rocks  at  Narragansett,  and  the  nervous 
clutch  of  her  little  fingers,  when  the  footing  failed, 
sent  a  delicious  thrill  through  her  lover.  King  thought 
himself  quite  in  love  with  Forbes — there  was  the  wann- 
est affection  between  the  two — but  when  he  hauled  the 
artist  up  a  Catskill  cliff  there  wasn't  the  least  of  this 
sort  of  a  thrill  in  the  grip  of  hands.  Perhaps  if  women 
had  the  ballot  in  their  hands  all  this  nervous  fluid 
would  disappear  out  of  the  world. 

At  Jordan  Pond  boats  were  waiting.     It  is  a  pretty 


Their  Pilgrimage.  195 

fresh-water  pond  between  high  sloping  hills,  and  twin 
peaks  at  the  north  end  give  it  even  picturesqueness. 
There  are  a  good  many  trout  in  it — at  least  that  is 
the  supposition,  for  the  visitors  very  seldom  get  them 
out.  When  the  boats  with  their  chattering  passengers 
had  pushed  out  into  the  lake  and  accomplished  a  third 
of  the  voyage,  they  were  met  by  a  skiff  containing 
the  faithful  chaperons  Mrs.  Simpkins  and  Mr.  Meigs. 
They  hailed,  but  Mr.  King,  who  was  rowing  his  boat, 
did  not  slacken  speed.  "Are  you  much  tired,  Miss 
Benson  ?"  shouted  Mr.  Meigs.  King  didn't  like  this  as- 
sumption of  protection.  "  I've  brought  you  a  shawl." 

"  Hang  his  paternal  impudence  !"  growled  King, 
under  his  breath,  as  he  threw  himself  back  with  a 
jerk  on  the  oars  that  nearly  sent  Irene  over  the  stern 
of  the  boat. 

Evidently  the  boat-load,  of  which  the  Ashley  girls 
and  Mr.  Van  Dusen  were  a  part,  had  taken  the  sense 
of  this  little  comedy,  for  immediately  they  struck  up : 

"  For  he  is  going  to  marry  Yum- Yum — 

Yum-Yum ! 

For  he  is  going  to  marry  Yum-Yum — 
Yum-Yum !" 

This  pleasantry  passed  entirely  over  the  head  of 
Irene,  who  had  not  heard  the  "  Mikado,"  but  King  ac- 
cepted it  as  a  good  omen,  and  forgave  its  impudence. 
It  set  Mr.  Meigs  thinking  that  he  had  a  rival. 

At  the  landing,  however,  Mr.  Meigs  was  on  hand  to 
help  Irene  out,  and  a  presentation  of  Mr.  King  followed. 
Mr.  Meigs  was  polite  even  to  cordiality,  and  thanked 
him  for  taking  such  good  care  of  her.  Men  will  make 
such  blunders  sometimes. 


196  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Oh,  we  are  old  friends,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

Mr.  Meigs  tried  to  mend  matters  by  saying  that  he 
had  promised  Mrs.  Benson,  you  know,  to  look  after 
her.  There  was  that  in  Irene's  manner  that  said  she 
was  not  to  be  appropriated  without  leave.  But  the 
consciousness  that  her  look  betrayed  this  softened  her 
at  once  towards  Mr.  Meigs,  and  decidedly  improved 
his  chances  for  the  evening.  The  philosopher  says 
^hat  women  are  cruelest  when  they  set  out  to  be  kind. 

The  supper  was  an  alfresco  affair,  the  party  being 
seated  about  on  rocks  and  logs  and  shawls  spread  upon 
the  grass  near  the  farmer's  house.  The  scene  was  a 
very  pretty  one,  at  least  the  artist  thought  so,  and  Miss 
Lamont  said  it  was  lovely,  and  the  Ashley  girls  de- 
clared it  was  just  divine.  There  was  no  reason  why 
King  should  not  enjoy  the  chaff  and  merriment  and 
the  sunset  light  which  touched  the  group,  except  that 
the  one  woman  he  cared  to  serve  was  enveloped  in  the 
attentions  of  Mr.  Meigs.  The  drive  home  in  the  moon- 
light was  the  best  part  of  the  excursion,  or  it  would 
have  been  if  there  had  not  been  a  general  change  of 
seats  ordered,  altogether,  as  Mr.  King  thought,  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  Boston  man.  It  nettled  him 
that  Irene  let  herself  fall  to  the  escort  of  Mr.  Meigs, 
for  women  can  always  arrange  these  things  if  they 
choose,  and  he  had  only  a  melancholy  satisfaction  in 
the  college  songs  and  conundrums  that  enlivened  the 
festive  buck-board  in  which  he  was  a  passenger.  Not 
that  he  did  not  join  in  the  hilarity,  but  it  seemed  only 
a  poor  imitation  of  pleasure.  Alas,  that  the  tone  of 
-one  woman's  voice,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  the  glance 
•of  her  eye,  should  outweigh  the  world ! 


THE   WATERMELON   PARTY. 


Somehow,  with  all  the  opportunities,  the  suit  of  our 
friend  did  not  advance  beyond  a  certain  point.  Irene 
was  always  cordial,  always  friendly,  but  he  tried  in 
vain  to  ascertain  whether  the  middle-aged  man  from 
Boston  had  touched  her  imagination.  There  was  a 
boating  party  the  next  evening  in  Frenchman's  Bay, 
and  King  had  the  pleasure  of  pulling  Miss  Benson  and 
Miss  Lamont  out  seaward  under  the  dark,  frowning 
cliffs  until  they  felt  the  ocean  swell,  and  then  of  mak- 
ing the  circuit  of  Porcupine  Island.  It  was  an  en- 
chanting night,  full  of  mystery.  The  rock  face  of 
the  Porcupine  glistened  white  in  the  moonlight  as  if 
it  were  encrusted  with  salt,  the  waves  beat  in  a  cqn- 
tinuous  roar  against  its  base,  which  is  honeycombed 
by  the  action  of  the  water,  and  when  the  boat  glided 
into  its  shadow  it  loomed  up  vast  and  wonderful.  Sea- 


198  Their  Pilgrimage. 

ward  were  the  harbor  lights,  the  phosphorescent  glisten 
of  the  waves,  the  dim  forms  of  other  islands;  all  about 
in  the  bay  row-boats  darted  in  and  out  of  the  moon- 
light, voices  were  heard  calling  from  boat  to  boat, 
songs  floated  over  the  water,  and  the  huge  Portland 
steamer  came  plunging  in  out  of  the  night,  a  blazing, 
trembling  monster.  Not  much  was  said  in  the  boat, 
but  the  impression  of  such  a  night  goes  far  in  the  ro- 
mance of  real  life. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  impression  that  made  her  assent 
readily  to  a  walk  next  morning  with  Mr.  King  along 
the  bay.  The  shore  is  nearly  all  occupied  by  private 
cottages,  with  little  lawns  running  down  to  the  granite 
edge  of  the  water.  It  is  a  favorite  place  for  strolling; 
couples  establish  themselves  with  books  and  umbrellas 
on  the  rocks,  children  are  dabbling  in  the  coves,  sails 
enliven  the  bay,  row-boats  dart  about,  the  cawing  of 
crows  is  heard  in  the  still  air.  Irene  declared  that  the 
scene  was  idyllic.  The  girl  was  in  a  most  gracious 
humor,  and  opened  her  life  more  to  King  than  she  had 
ever  done  before.  By  such  confidences  usually  women 
invite  avowals,  and  as  the  two  paced  along,  King  felt 
the  moment  approach  when  there  would  be  the  most 
natural  chance  in  the  world  for  him  to  tell  this  woman 
what  she  was  to  him;  at  the  next  turn  in  the  shore,  by 
that  rock,  surely  the  moment  would  come.  What  is 
this  airy  nothing  by  which  women  protect  themselves 
in  such  emergencies,  by  a  question,  by  a  tone,  an  in- 
visible strong  barrier  that  the  most  impetuous  dare 
not  attempt  to  break  ?  King  felt  the  subtle  restraint 
which  he  could  not  define  or  explain.  And  before  he 
could  speak  she  said, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  199 

"  We  are  going  away  to-morrow." 

"We?    And  who  are  we  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  Simpkinses  and  our  whole  family,  and  Mr. 
Meigs." 

"And  where?" 

"  Mr.  Meigs  has  persuaded  mother  into  the  wildest 
scheme.  It  is  nothing  less  than  to  leap  from  here 
across  all  the  intervening  states  to  the  White  Sulphur 
Springs  in  Virginia.  Father  falls  into  the  notion  be- 
cause he  wants  to  see  more  of  the  Southerners,  Mrs. 
Simpkins  and  her  daughter  are  crazy  to  go,  and  Mr. 
Meigs  says  he  has  been  trying  to  get  there  all  his  life, 
and  in  August  the  season  is  at  its  height.  It  was  all 
arranged  before  I  was  consulted,  but  I  confess  I  rather 
like  it.  It  will  be  a  change." 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  it  would  be  delightful,"  King 
replied,  rather  absent-mindedly.  "It's  a  long  jour- 
ney, a  very  long  journey.  I  should  think  it  would 
be  too  long  a  journey  for  Mr.  Meigs — at  his  time  of 
life." 

It  was  not  a  fortunate  remark,  and  still  it  might  be; 
for  who  could  tell  whether  Irene  would  not  be  flattered 
by  this  declaration  of  his  jealousy  of  Mr.  Meigs.  But 
she  passed  it  over  as  not  serious,  with  the  remark  that 
the  going  did  not  seem  to  be  beyond  the  strength  of 
her  father. 

The  introduction  of  Mr.  Meigs  in  the  guise  of  an  ac- 
cepted family  friend  and  travelling  companion  chilled 
King  and  cast  a  gloom  over  the  landscape.  After- 
wards he  knew  that  he  ought  to  have  dashed  in  and 
scattered  this  encompassing  network  of  Meigs,  dis- 
regarded the  girl's  fence  of  reserve,  and  avowed  his 


200  Their  Pilgrimage. 

love.  More  women  are  won  by  a  single  charge  at 
the  right  moment  than  by  a  whole  campaign  of 
strategy. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  hotel  he  was  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  he  burst  into  the  room  where  Forbes  was 
touching  up  one  of  his  sketches,  with  a  fully-formed 
plan.  "  Old  fellow,  what  do  you  say  to  going  to  Vir- 
ginia?" 

Forbes  put  in  a  few  deliberate  touches,  moving 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  with  aggravating 
slowness  said, "  What  do  you  want  to  go  to  Virginia 
for?" 

"Why,  White  Sulphur,  of  course;  the  most  charac- 
teristic watering-place  in  America.  See  the  whole 
Southern  life  there  in  August;  and  there's  the  Natu- 
ral Bridge." 

"  I've  seen  pictures  of  the  Natural  Bridge.  I  don't 
know  as  I  care  much  "  (still  contemplating  the  sketch 
from  different  points  of  view,  and  softly  whistling) 
"  for  the  whole  of  Southern  life." 

"  See  here,  Forbes,  you  must  have  some  deep  design 
to  make  you  take  that  attitude." 

"  Deep  design!"  replied  Forbes,  facing  round.  "  I'll 
be  hanged  if  I  see  what  you  are  driving  at.  I  thought 
it  was  Saratoga  and  Richfield,  and  mild  things  of  that 
sort." 

"  And  the  little  Lamont.  I  know  we  talked  of  go- 
ing there  with  her  and  her  uncle;  but  we  can  go  there 
afterwards.  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do:  I'll  go  to  Rich- 
field, and  stay  till  snow  comes,  if  you  will  take  a 
dip  with  me  down  into  Virginia  first.  You  ought  to 
do  it  for  your  art.  It's  something  new,  picturesque — 


Their  Pilgrimage.  201 

negroes,  Southern  belles,  old-time  manners.  You  can- 
not afford  to  neglect  it." 

"I  don't  see  the  fun  of  being  yanked  all  over  the 
United  States  in  the  middle  of  August." 

"  You  want  shaking  up.  You've  been  drawing  sea- 
shores with  one  figure  in  them  till  your  pictures  all 
look  like — well,  like  Lamont  and  water." 

"  That's  better,"  Forbes  retorted,  "  than  Benson  and 
gruel." 

And  the  two  got  into  a  huff.  The  artist  took  his 
sketck-book  and  went  out-doors,  and  King  went  to  his 
room  to  study  the  guide-books  and  the  map  of  Vir- 
ginia. The  result  was  that  when  the  friends  met  for 
dinner,  King  said, 

"  I  thought  you  might  do  it  for  me,  old  boy." 

And  Forbes  replied:  "Why  didn't  you  say  so?  I 
don't  care  a  rap  where  I  go.  But  it's  Richfield  after- 
wards." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHAT  occurred  at  the  parting  between  the  artist 
and  the  little  Lament  at  Bar  Harbor  I  never  knew. 
There  was  that  good  comradeship  between  the  two, 
that  frank  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society,  without 
any  sentimental  nonsense,  so  often  seen  between  two 
young  people  in  America,  which  may  end  in  a  friend- 
ship of  a  summer,  or  extend  to  the  cordial  esteem  of  a 
lifetime,  or  result  in  marriage.  I  always  liked  the  girl ; 
she  had  such  a  sunny  temper,  such  a  flow  of  original- 
ity in  her  mental  attitude  towards  people  and  things 
without  being  a  wit  or  a  critic,  and  so  much  piquancy 
in  all  her  little  ways.  She  would  take  to  matrimony, 
I  should  say,  like  a  duck  to  water,  with  unruffled  plu- 
mage, but  as  a  wife  she  would  never  be  commonplace, 
or  anything  but  engaging,  and,  as  the  saying  is,  she 
could  make  almost  any  man  happy.  And,  if  unmar- 
ried, what  a  delightful  sister-in-law  she  would  be,  es- 
pecially a  deceased  wife's  sister  ! 

I  never  imagined  that  she  was  capable  of  a  great 
passion,  as  was  Irene  Benson,  who  under  a  serene  ex- 
terior was  moved  by  tides  of  deep  feeling,  subject 
to  moods,  and  full  of  aspirations  and  longings  which 
she  herself  only  dimly  knew  the  meaning  of.  With 
Irene  marriage  would  be  either  supreme  happiness  or 
extreme  wretchedness,  no  half-way  acceptance  of  a  con- 
ventional life.  With  such  a  woman  life  is  a  failure, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  203 

either  tragic  or  pathetic,  without  a  great  passion  given 
and  returned.  It  is  fortunate,  considering  the  chances 
that  make  unions  in  society,  that  for  most  men  and 
women  the  "  grand  passion  "  is  neither  necessary  nor 
possible.  I  did  not  share  King's  prejudice  against  Mr. 
Meigs.  He  seemed  to  me,  as  the  world  goes,  a  bon 
parti,  cultivated  by  travel  and  reading,  well-bred,  en- 
tertaining, amiable,  possessed  of  an  ample  fortune,  the 
ideal  husband  in  the  eyes  of  a  prudent  mother.  But 
I  used  to  think  that  if  Irene,  attracted  by  his  many  ad- 
mirable qualities,  should  become  his  wife,  and  that  if 
afterwards  the  Prince  should  appear  and  waken  the 
slumbering  woman's  heart  in  her,  what  a  tragedy  would 
ensue.  I  can  imagine  their  placid  existence  if  the 
Prince  should  not  appear,  and  I  can  well  believe  that 
Irene  and  Stanhope  would  have  many  a  tumultuous 
passage  in  the  passionate  symphony  of  their  lives. 
But,  great  heavens,  is  the  ideal  marriage  a  Holland  ! 

If  Marion  had  shed  any  tears  overnight,  say  on  ac- 
count of  a  little  lonesomeness  because  her  friend  was 
speeding  away  from  her  southward,  there  were  no 
traces  of  them  when  she  met  her  uncle  at  the  break- 
fast-table, as  bright  and  chatty  as  usual,  and  in  as  high 
spirits  as  one  can  maintain  with  the  Rodick  coffee. 

What  a  world  of  shifting  scenes  it  is  !  Forbes  had 
picked  up  his  traps  and  gone  off  with  his  unreasonable 
companion  like  a  soldier.  The  day  after,  when  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  of  his  sleeping-compartment 
at  half -past  four,  he  saw  the  red  sky  of  morning,  and 
against  it  the  spires  of  Philadelphia.  At  ten  o'clock 
the  two  friends  were  breakfasting  comfortably  in  the 
car,  and  running  along  down  the  Cumberland  Valley. 


204  Their  Pilgrimage. 

What  a  contrast  was  this  rich  country,  warm  with 
color  and  suggestive  of  abundance,  to  the  pale  and 
scrimped  coast  land  of  Maine  denuded  of  its  trees  ! 
By  afternoon  they  were  far  down  the  east  valley  of 
the  Shenandoah,  between  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  Mas- 
sanutten  range,  in  a  country  broken,  picturesque,  fer- 
tile, so  attractive  that  they  wondered  there  were  so  few 
villages  on  the  route,  and  only  now  and  then  a  cheap 
shanty  in  sight;  and  crossing  the  divide  to  the  waters 
of  the  James,  at  sundown,  in  the  midst  of  a  splendid 
effect  of  mountains  and  clouds  in  a  thunder-storm,  they 
came  to  Natural  Bridge  station,  where  a  coach  awaited 
them. 

This  was  old  ground  to  King,  who  had  been  tell- 
ing the  artist  that  the  two  natural  objects  east  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  that  he  thought  entitled  to  the 
epithet  "  sublime  "  were  Niagara  Falls  and  the  Nat- 
ural Bridge;  and  as  for  scenery,  he  did  not  know  of 
any  more  noble  and  refined  than  this  region  of  the 
Blue  Ridge.  Take  away  the  Bridge  altogether,  which 
is  a  mere  freak,  and  the  place  would  still  possess,  he 
said,  a  charm  unique.  Since  the  enlargement  of  hotel 
facilities  and  the  conversion  of  this  princely  domain 
into  a  grand  park,  it  has  become  a  favorite  summer 
resort.  The  gorge  of  the  Bridge  is  a  botanical  store- 
house, greater  variety  of  evergreens  cannot  be  found 
together  anywhere  else  in  the  country,  and  the  hills 
are  still  clad  with  stately  forests.  In  opening  drives, 
and  cutting  roads  and  vistas  to  give  views,  the  pro- 
prietor has  shown  a  skill  and  taste  in  dealing  with 
natural  resources,  both  in  regard  to  form  and  the  de- 
velopment of  contrasts  of  color  in  foliage,  which  are 


Their  Pilgrimage.  205 

rare  in  landscape  gardening  on  this  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic. Here  is  the  highest  part  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  and 
from  the  gentle  summit  of  Mount  Jefferson  the  spec- 
tator has  in  view  a  hundred  miles  of  this  remarkable 
range,  this  ribbed  mountain  structure,  which  always 
wears  a  mantle  of  beauty,  changeable  purple  and 
violet. 

After  supper  there  was  an  illumination  of  the  cas- 
cade, and  the  ancient  gnarled  arbor-vitse  trees  that 
lean  over  it — perhaps  the  largest  known  specimens  of 
this  species — of  the  gorge  and  the  Bridge.  Nature  is 
apt  to  be  belittled  by  this  sort  of  display,  but  the  no- 
ble dignity  of  the  vast  arch  of  stone  was  superior  to 
this  trifling,  and  even  had  a  sort  of  mystery  added  to 
its  imposing  grandeur.  It  is  true  that  the  flaming 
bonfires  and  the  colored  lights  and  the  tiny  figures 
of  men  and  women  standing  in  the  gorge  within  the 
depth  of  the  arch  made  the  scene  theatrical,  but  it  was 
strange  and  weird  and  awful,  like  the  fantasy  of  a 
Walpurgis'  Night  or  a  midnight  revel  in  Faust. 

The  presence  of  the  colored  brother  in  force  dis- 
tinguished this  from  provincial  resorts  at  the  North, 
even  those  that  employ  this  color  as  servants.  The 
flavor  of  Old  Virginia  is  unmistakable,  and  life  drops 
into  an  easy-going  pace  under  this  influence.  What 
fine  manners,  to  be  sure  !  The  waiters  in  the  dining- 
room,  in  white  ties  and  dress-coats,  move  on  springs, 
starting  even  to  walk  with  a  complicated  use  of  all 
the  muscles  of  the  body,  as  if  in  response  to  the  twang 
of  a  banjo;  they  do  nothing  without  excessive  motion 
and  flourish.  The  gestures  and  good-humored  vitality 
expended  in  changing  plates  would  become  the  leader 


NEGRO  WAITER. 

of  an  orchestra.  Many  of  them,  besides,  have  the  ex- 
pression of  class-leaders — of  a  worldly  sort.  There 
were  the  aristocratic  chamber-maid  and  porter,  who 
had  the  air  of  never  having  waited  on  any  but  the  first 
families.  And  what  clever  flatterers  and  readers  of 
human  nature  !  They  can  tell  in  a  moment  whether 
a  man  will  be  complimented  by  the  remark,  "  I  tuk 
you  for  a  Richmond  gemman,  never  sho'd  have  know'd 
you  was  frum  de  Norf,"  or  whether  it  is  best  to  say, 
"  We  depen's  on  de  gemmen  frum  de  Norf  ;  folks 
down  hyer  never  gives  noffin;  is  too  pore."  But  to  a 
Richmond  man  it  is  always,  "  The  Yankee  is  mighty 
keerful  of  his  money;  we  depen's  on  the  old  sort, 
marse."  A  fine  specimen  of  the  "  Richmond  darkey  " 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


207 


of  the  old  school  —  polite,  flattering,  with  a  venerable 
head  of  gray  wool,  was  the  bartender,  who  mixed  his 
juleps  with  a  flourish  as  if  keeping  time  to  music. 
"Haven't  I  waited  on  you  befo',  sah?  At  Capon 
Springs  ?  Sorry,  sah,  but  tho't  I  knowed  you  when 
you  come  in.  Sorry,  but  glad  to  know  you  now,  sah. 
If  that  julep  don't  suit  you,  sah,  throw  it  in  my  face." 


"HAVEN'T  i  WAITED  ON  YOU  BEFO',  SAH?" 

A  friendly,  restful,  family  sort  of  place,  with  music, 
a  little  mild  dancing,  mostly  performed  by  children,  in 
the  pavilion,  driving  and  riding — in  short,  peace  in  the 
midst  of  noble  scenery.  No  display  of  fashion,  the 
artist  soon  discovered,  and  he  said  he  longed  to  give 
the  pretty  girls  some  instruction  in  the  art  of  dress. 


208  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Forbes  was  a  missionary  of  "style."  It  hurt  his 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  to  see  women  without  it. 
He  used  to  say  that  an  ill-dressed  woman  would  spoil 
the  finest  landscape.  For  such  a  man,  with  an  artistic 
feeling  so  sensitive,  the  White  Sulphur  Springs  is  a 
natural  goal.  And  he  and  his  friend  hastened  thither 
with  as  much  speed  *as  the  Virginia  railways,  whose 
time-tables  are  carefully  adjusted  to  miss  all  connec- 
tions, permit. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  a  place,"  he  wrote  Miss  La- 
mont — the  girl  read  me  a  portion  of  his  lively  letter 
that  summer  at  Saratoga — "  into  which  you  come  by 
a  belated  train  at  half -past  eleven  at  night,  find  friends 
waiting  up  for  you  in  evening  costume,  are  taken  to  a 
champagne  supper  at  twelve,  get  to  your  quarters  at 
one,  and  have  your  baggage  delivered  to  you  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  ?"  The  friends  were  lodged  in 
"Paradise  Row" — a  whimsical  name  given  to  one  of 
the  quarters  assigned  to  single  gentlemen.  Put  into 
these  single-room  barracks,  which  were  neat  but  exceed- 
ingly primitive  in  their  accommodations,  by  hilarious 
negro  attendants  who  appeared  to  regard  life  as  one 
prolonged  lark,  and  who  avowed  that  there  was  no  time 
of  day  or  night  when  a  mint-julep  or  any  other  neces- 
sary of  life  would  not  be  forthcoming  at  a  moment's 
warning,  the  beginning  of  their  sojourn  at  "  The 
White  "  took  on  an  air  of  adventure,  and  the  two  stran- 
gers had  the  impression  of  having  dropped  into  a  gar- 
rison somewhere  on  the  frontier.  But  when  King 
stepped  out  upon  the  gallery,  in  the  fresh  summer 
morning,  the  scene  that  met  his  eyes  was  one  of  such 
peaceful  dignity,  and  so  different  from  any  in  his  ex- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  209 

pericnce,  that  he  was  aware  that  he  had  come  upon  an 
original  development  of  watering-place  life. 

The  White  Sulphur  has  been  for  the  better  part  of 
a  century,  as  everybody  knows,  the  typical  Southern 
resort,  the  rendezvous  of  all  that  was  most  character- 
istic in  the  society  of  the  whole  South,  the  meeting- 
place  of  its  politicians,  the  haunt  of  its  belles,  the 
arena  of  gayety,  intrigue,  and  fashion.  If  tradition  is 
to  be  believed,  here  in  years  gone  by  were  concocted 
the  measures  that  were  subsequently  deployed  for  the 
government  of  the  country  at  Washington,  here  his- 
toric matches  were  made,  here  beauty  had  triumphs 
that  were  the  talk  of  a  generation,  here  hearts  were 
broken  at  a  ball  and  mended  in  Lovers'  Walk,  and 
here  fortunes  were  nightly  lost  and  won.  It  must 
have  been  in  its  material  conditions  a  primitive  place 
in  the  days  of  its  greatest  fame.  Visitors  came  to  it 
in  their  carriages  and  unwieldy  four-horse  chariots, 
attended  by  troops  of  servants,  making  slow  but  most 
enjoyable  pilgrimages  over  the  mountain  roads,  jour- 
neys that  lasted  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  and  were  every 
day  enlivened  by  jovial  adventure.  They  came  for  the 
season.  They  were  all  of  one  social  order,  and  needed 
no  introduction ;  those  from  Virginia  were  all  related 
to  each  other,  and  though  life  there  was  somewhat  in 
the  nature  of  a  picnic,  it  had  its  very  well  defined  and 
ceremonious  code  of  etiquette.  In  the  memory  of  its 
old  habitues  it  was  at  once  the  freest  and  the  most 
aristocratic  assembly  in  the  world.  The  hotel  was 
small  and  its  arrangements  primitive;  a  good  many  of 
the  visitors  had  their  own  cottages,  and  the  rows  of 
these  cheap  structures  took  their  names  from  their  oc- 
14 


210  Their  Pilgrimage. 

cupants.  The  Southern  presidents,  the  senators  and 
statesmen,  the  rich  planters,  lived  in  cottages  which 
still  have  an  historic  interest  in  their  memory.  But 
cottage  life  was  never  the  exclusive  affair  that  it  is 
elsewhere;  the  society  was  one  body,  and  the  hotel 
was  the  centre. 

Time  has  greatly  changed  the  White  Sulphur ; 
doubtless  in  its  physical  aspect  it  never  was  so  beau- 
tiful and  attractive  as  it  is  to-day,  but  all  the  modern 
improvements  have  not  destroyed  the  character  of  the 
resort,  which  possesses  a  great  many  of  its  primitive 
and  old-time  peculiarities. 

Briefly  the  White  is  an  elevated  and  charming 
mountain  region,  so  cool,  in  fact,  especially  at  night, 
that  the  "season  "  is  practically  limited  to  July  and 
August,  although  I  am  not  sure  but  a  quiet  person, 
who  likes  invigorating  air,  and  has  no  daughters  to 
marry  off,  would  find  it  equally  attractive  in  Septem- 
ber and  October,  when  the  autumn  foliage  is  in  its 
glory.  In  a  green  rolling  interval,  planted  with  noble 
trees  and  flanked  by  moderate  hills,  stands  the  vast 
white  caravansary,  having  wide  galleries  and  big  pil- 
lars running  round  three  sides.  The  front  and  two 
sides  are  elevated,  the  galleries  being  reached  by 
flights  of  steps,  and  affording  room  underneath  for 
the  large  billiard  and  bar  rooms.  From  the  hotel  the 
ground  slopes  down  to  the  spring,  which  is  surmounted 
by  a  round  canopy  on  white  columns,  and  below  is  an 
opening  across  the  stream  to  the  race-track,  the  ser- 
vants' quarters,  and  a  fine  view  of  receding  hills. 
Three  sides  of  this  charming  park  are  enclosed  by  the 
cottages  and  cabins,  which  back  against  the  hills,  and 


Their  Pilgrimage.  211 

are  more  or  less  embowered  in  trees.  Most  of  these 
cottages  are  built  in  blocks  and  rows,  some  single 
rooms,  others  large  enough  to  accommodate  a  family, 
but  all  reached  by  flights  of  steps,  all  with  verandas, 
and  most  of  them  connected  by  galleries.  Occasion- 
ally the  forest  trees  have  been  left,  and  the  galleries 
built  around  them.  Included  in  the  premises  are  two 
churches,  a  gambling-house,  a  couple  of  country  stores, 
and  a  post-office.  There  are  none  of  the  shops  com- 
mon at  watering-places  for  the  sale  of  fancy  articles, 
and,  strange  to  say,  flowers  are  not  systematically  cul- 
tivated, and  very  few  are  ever  to  be  had.  The  hotel 
has  a  vast  dining-room,  besides  the  minor  eating-rooms 
for  children  and  nurses,  a  large  ball-room,  and  a  draw- 
ing-room of  imposing  dimensions.  Hotel  and  cottages 
together,  it  is  said,  can  lodge  fifteen  hundred  guests. 

The  natural  beauty  of  the  place  is  very  great,  and 
fortunately  there  is  not  much  smart  and  fantastic  ar- 
chitecture to  interfere  with  it.  I  cannot  say  whether 
the  knowledge  that  Irene  was  in  one  of  the  cottages 
affected  King's  judgment,  but  that  morning,  when  he 
strolled  to  the  upper  part  of  the  grounds  before  break- 
fast, he  thought  he  had  never  beheld  a  scene  of  more 
beauty  and  dignity,  as  he  looked  over  the  mass  of 
hotel  buildings,  upon  the  park  set  with  a  wonderful 
variety  of  dark  green  foliage,  upon  the  elevated  rows 
of  galleried  cottages  marked  by  colonial  simplicity  t 
and  the  soft  contour  of  the  hills,  which  satisfy  the  eye 
in  their  delicate  blending  of  every  shade  of  green  and 
brown.  And  after  an  acquaintance  of  a  couple  of 
weeks  the  place  seemed  to  him  ravishingly  beautiful. 

King  was  always  raving  about  the  White  Sulphur 


212  Their  Pilgrimage. 

after  he  came  North,  and  one  never  could  tell  how 
much  his  judgment  was  colored  by  his  peculiar  expe- 
riences there.  It  was  my  impression  that  if  he  had 
spent  those  two  weeks  on  a  barren  rock  in  the  ocean, 
with  only  one  fair  spirit  for  his  minister,  he  would 
have  sworn  that  it  was  the  most  lovely  spot  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  He  always  declared  that  it  was  the 
most  friendly,  cordial  society  at  this  resort  in  the 
country.  At  breakfast  he  knew  scarcely  any  one  in 
the  vast  dining-room,  except  the  New  Orleans  and 
Richmond  friends  with  whom  he  had  a  seat  at  table. 
But  their  acquaintance  sufficed  to  establish  his  posi- 
tion. Before  dinner-time  he  knew  half  a  hundred;  in 
the  evening  his  introductions  had  run  up  into  the  hun- 
dreds, and  he  felt  that  he  had  potential  friends  in  ev- 
ery Southern  city;  and  before  the  week  was  over  there 
was  not  one  of  the  thousand  guests  he  did  not  know 
or  might  not  know.  At  his  table  he  heard  Irene  spo- 
ken of  and  her  beauty  commented  on.  Two  or  three 
days  had  been  enough  to  give  her  a  reputation  in  a 
society  that  is  exceedingly  sensitive  to  beauty.  The 
men  were  all  ready  to  do  her  homage,  and  the  women 
took  her  into  favor  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  Mr.  Meigs, 
whose  social  position  was  perfectly  well  known,  was  of 
her  party.  The  society  of  the  White  Sulphur  seems 
perfectly  easy  of  access,  but  the  ineligible  will  find 
that  it  is  able,  like  that  of  Washington,  to  protect  it- 
self. It  was  not  •  without  a  little  shock  that  King 
heard  the  good  points,  the  style,  the  physical  perfec- 
tions, of  Irene  so  fully  commented  on,  and  not  with- 
out some  alarm  that  he  heard  predicted  for  her  a  very 
successful  career  as  a  belle. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  213 

Coming  out  from  breakfast,  the  Benson  party  were 
encountered  on  the  gallery,  and  introductions  fol- 
lowed. It  was  a  trying  five  minutes  for  King,  who 
felt  as  guilty  as  if  the  White  Sulphur  were  private 
property  into  which  he  had  intruded  without  an  in- 
vitation. There  was  in  the  civility  of  Mr.  Meigs  no 
sign  of  an  invitation.  Mrs.  Benson  said  she  was  never 
so  surprised  in  her  life,  and  the  surprise  seemed  not 
exactly  an  agreeable  one,  but  Mr.  Benson  looked  a 
great  deal  more  pleased  than  astonished.  The  slight 
flush  in  Irene's  face  as  she  greeted  him  might  have 
been  wholly  due  to  the  unexpectedness  of  the  meet- 
ing. Some  of  the  gentlemen  lounged  off  to  the  office 
region  for  politics  and  cigars,  the  elderly  ladies  took 
seats  upon  the  gallery,  and  the  rest  of  the  party 
strolled  down  to  the  benches  under  the  trees. 

"So  Miss  Benson  was  expecting  you!"  said  Mrs. 
Farquhar,  who  was  walking  with  King.  It  is  enough 
to  mention  Mrs.  Farquhar's  name  to  an  habitue  of  the 
Springs.  It  is  not  so  many  years  ago  since  she  was  a 
reigning  belle,  and  as  noted  for  her  wit  and  sparkling 
raillery  as  for  her  beauty.  She  was  still  a  very  hand- 
some woman,  whose  original  cleverness  had  been  cul- 
tivated by  a  considerable  experience  of  social  life  in 
this  country  as  well  as  in  London  and  Paris. 

"  Was  she  ?  I'm  sure  I  never  told  her  I  was  com- 
ing here." 

"No,  simple  man.  You  were  with  her  at  Bar  Har- 
bor, and  I  suppose  she  never  mentioned  to  you  that 
she  was  coming  here  ?" 

"  But  why  did  you  think  she  expected  me  ?" 

"You  men  are  too  aggravatingly  stupid.     I  never 


POLITICS  AND  CIGARS. 

saw  astonishment  better  feigned.  I  dare  say  it  im- 
posed upon  that  other  admirer. of  hers  also.  Well,  I 
like  her,  and  I  am  going  to  be  good  to  her."  This 
meant  a  good  deal.  Mrs.  Farquhar  was  related  to 
everybody  in  Virginia — that  is,  everybody  who  was 
anybody  before  the  war — and  she  could  count  at  that 
moment  seventy -five  cousins,  some  of  them  first  and 
some  of  them  double-first  cousins,  at  the  White  Sul- 
phur. Mrs.  Farquhar's  remark  meant  that  all  these 
cousins  and  all  their  friends  the  South  over  would 
stand  by  Miss  Benson  socially  from  that  moment. 
The  morning  german  had  just  begun  in  the  ball- 


^s*>- . 


216  Their  Pilgrimage. 

room.  The  gallery  was  thronged  with  spectators, 
clustering  like  bees  about  the  large  windows,  and  the 
notes  of  the  band  came  floating  out  over  the  lawn, 
bringing  to  the  groups  there  the  lulling  impression 
that  life  is  all  a  summer  holiday. 

"  And  they  say  she  is  from  Ohio.  It  is  right  odd, 
isn't  it  ?  but  two  or,  three  of  the  prettiest  women  here 
are  from  that  state.  There  is  Mrs.  Martin,  sweet  as 
a  jacqueminot.  I'd  introduce  you  if  her  husband  were 
here.  Ohio!  Well,  we  get  used  to  it.  I  should  have 
known  the  father  and  mother  were  corn-fed.  I  suppose 
you  prefer  the  corn-feds  to  the  Confeds.  But  there's 
homespun  and  homespun.  You  see  those  under  the 
trees  yonder  ?  Georgia  homespun !  Perhaps  you  don't 
see  the  difference.  I  do." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  provincial.'' 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  I'm  provincial.  It  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult thing  to  be  in  these  levelling  days.  But  I  am  not 
going  to  interest  you  in  myself.  I  am  too  unselfish. 
Your  Miss  Benson  is  a  fine  girl,  and  it  does  not  matter 
about  her  parents.  Since  you  Yankees  upset  every- 
thing by  the  war,  it  is  really  of  no  importance  who 
one's  mother  is.  But,  mind,  this  is  not  my  opinion. 
I'm  trying  to  adjust  myself.  You  have  no  idea  how 
reconstructed  I  am." 

And  with  this  Mrs.  Farquhar  went  over  to  Miss 
Benson,  and  chatted  for  a  few  moments,  making  her- 
self particularly  agreeable  to  Mr.  Meigs,  and  actually 
carried  that  gentleman  off  to  the  spring,  and  then  as 
an  escort  to  her  cottage,  shaking  her  fan  as  she  went 
away  at  Mr.  King  and  Irene,  and  saying,  "  It  is  a  waste 
of  time  for  you  youngsters  not  to  be  in  the  german." 


Their  Pilgrimage.  217 

The  german  was  just  ended,  and  the  participants 
were  grouping  themselves  on  the  gallery  to  be  photo- 
graphed, the  usual  custom  for  perpetuating  the  mem- 
ory of  these  exercises,  which  only  take  place  every 
other  morning.  And  since  something  must  be  done, 
as  there  are  only  six  nights  for  dancing  in  the  week, 
on  the  off  mornings  there  are  champagne  and  fruit 
parties  on  the  lawn. 

It  was  not  about  the  german,  however,  that  King 
was  thinking.  He  was  once  more  beside  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  all  the  influences  of  summer  and  the 
very  spirit  of  this  resort  were  in  his  favor.  If  I  can- 
not win  her  here,  he  was  saying  to  himself,  the  Meigs 
is  in  it.  They  talked  about  the  journey,  about  Luray, 
where  she  had  been,  and  about  the  Bridge,  and  the 
abnormal  gayety  of  the  Springs. 

"The  people  are  all  so  friendly,"  she  said,  "and 
strive  so  much  to  put  the  stranger  at  his  ease,  and 
putting  themselves  out  lest  time  hang  heavy  on  one's 
hands.  They  seem  somehow  responsible." 

"  Yes,"  said  King,  "  the  place  is  unique  in  that  re- 
spect. I  suppose  it  is  partly  owing  to  the  concentra- 
tion of  the  company  in  and  around  the  hotel." 

"  But  the  sole  object  appears  to  me  to  be  agreeable, 
and  make  a  real  social  life.  At  other  like  places  no- 
body seems  to  care  what  becomes  of  anybody  else." 

"  Doubtless  the  cordiality  and  good  feeling  are  spon- 
taneous, though  something  is  due  to  manner,  and  a 
habit  of  expressing  the  feeling  that  arises.  Still,  I 
do  not  expect  to  find  any  watering-place  a  paradise. 
This  must  be  vastly  different  from  any  other  if  it  is 
not  full  of  cliques  and  gossip  and  envy  underneath. 


218  Their  Pilgrimage. 

But  we  do  not  go  to  a  summer  resort  to  philosophize. 
A  market  is  a  market,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  markets,  and  this  cor- 
diality may  all  be  on  the  surface,  but  it  makes  life  very 
agreeable,  and  I  wish  our  Northerners  would  catch  the 
Southern  habit  of  showing  sympathy  where  it  exists." 

"  Well,  I'm  free  to  say  that  I  like  the  place,  and  all 
its  easy-going  ways,  and  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  new 
experience." 

"Me?     Why  so?" 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  come  if  it  had  not  been  for 
your  suggestion — I  mean  for  your — your  saying  that 
you  were  coming  here  reminded  me  that  it  was  a  place 
I  ought  to  see." 

"I'm  glad  to  have  served  you  as  a  guide-book." 

"  And  I  hope  you  are  not  sorry  that  I — " 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Benson  and  Mr.  Meigs  came 
down  with  the  announcement  of  the  dinner  hour,  and 
the  latter  marched  off  with  the  ladies  with  a  "  one-of- 
the-f  amily  "  air. 

The  party  did  not  meet  again  till  evening  in  the 
great  drawing-room.  The  business  at  the  White  Sul- 
phur is  pleasure.  And  this  is  about  the  order  of  pro- 
ceedings :  A  few  conscientious  people  take  an  early 
glass  at  the  spring,  and  later  patronize  the  baths,  and 
there  is  a  crowd  at  the  post-office  ;  a  late  breakfast; 
lounging  and  gossip  on  the  galleries  and  in  the  parlor; 
politics  and  old-fogy  talk  in  the  reading-room  and  in 
the  piazza  corners;  flirtation  on  the  lawn;  a  german 
every  other  morning  at  eleven ;  wine-parties  under  the 
trees;  morning  calls  at  the  cottages;  servants  running 
hither  and  thither  with  cooling  drinks;  the  bar-room 


FLIRTATION  ON  THE  LAWN. 

not  absolutely  deserted  and  cheerless  at  any  hour,  day 
or  night;  dinner  from  two  to  four;  occasionally  a  rid- 
ing-party ;  some  driving  ;  though  there  were  charming 
drives  in  every  direction,  few  private  carriages,  and  no 
display  of  turn-outs;  strolls  in  Lovers'  Walk  and  in 
the  pretty  hill  paths;  supper  at  eight,  and  then  the 
full-dress  assembly  in  the  drawing-room,  and  a  "  walk 
around  "  while  the  children  have  their  hour  in  the  ball- 
room; the  nightly  dance,  witnessed  by  a  crowd  on  the 
veranda,  followed  frequently  by  a  private  german  and 


220  Their  Pilgrimage. 

a  supper  given  by  some  lover  of  his  kind,  lasting  till 
all  hours  in  the  morning;  and  while  the  majority  of 
the  vast  encampment  reposes  in  slumber,  some  reso- 
lute spirits  are  fighting  the  tiger,  and  a  light  gleaming 
from  one  cottage  and  another  shows  where  devotees 
of  science  are  backing  their  opinion  of  the  relative 
value  of  chance  bits  of  pasteboard,  in  certain  combina- 
tions, with  a  liberality  and  faith  for  which  the  world 
gives  them  no  credit.  And  lest  their  life  should  be- 
come monotonous,  the  enterprising  young  men  are  con- 
tinually organizing  entertainments,  mock  races,  comi- 
cal games.  The  idea  seems  to  prevail  that  a  summer 
resort  ought  to  be  a  place  of  enjoyment. 

The  White  Sulphur  is  the  only  watering-place  re- 
maining in  the  United  States  where  there  is  what  may 
be  called  an  "  assembly,"  such  as  might  formerly  be 
seen  at  Saratoga  or  at  Ballston  Spa  in  Irving's  young 
days.  Everybody  is  in  the  drawing-room  in  the  even- 
ing, and  although,  in  the  freedom  of  the  place,  full 
dress  is  not  exacted,  the  habit  of  parade  in  full  toilet 
prevails.  When  King  entered  the  room  the  scene  might 
well  be  called  brilliant,  and  even  bewildering,  so  that 
in  the  maze  of  beauty  and  the  babble  of  talk  he  was 
glad  to  obtain  the  services  of  Mrs.  Farquhar  as  cice- 
rone. Between  the  rim  of  people  near  the  walls  and 
the  elliptical  centre  was  an  open .  space  for  promenad- 
ing, and  in  this  beauty  and  its  attendant  cavalier  went 
round  and  round  in  unending  show.  This  is  called  the 
"tread-mill."  But  for  the  seriousness  of  this  frank 
display,  and  the  unflagging  interest  of  the  spectators, 
there  would  have  been  an  element  of  high  comedy  in 
it.  It  was  an  education  to  join  a  wall  group  and  hear 


Their  Pilgrimage.  221 

the  free  and  critical  comments  on  the  style,  the  dress, 
the  physical  perfection,  of  the  charming  procession. 
When  Mrs.  Farquhar  and  King  had  taken  a  turn  or 
two,  they  stood  on  one  side  to  enjoy  the  scene. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  so  many  pretty  girls  together 
before  ?  If  you  did,  don't  you  dare  say  so." 

"  But  at  the  North  the  pretty  women  are  scattered 
in  a  thousand  places.  You  have  here  the  whole  South 
to  draw  on.  Are  they  elected  as  representatives  from 
the  various  districts,  Mrs.  Farquhar  ?" 

"Certainly.  By  an  election  that  your  clumsy  de- 
vice of  the  ballot  is  not  equal  to.  Why  shouldn't 
beauty  have  a  reputation  ?  You  see  that  old  lady  in 
the  corner?  Well,  forty  years  ago  the  Springs  just 
raved  over  her;  everybody  in  the  South  knew  her  ; 
I  suppose  she  had  an  average  of  seven  proposals  a 
week;  the  young  men  went  wild  about  her,  followed 
her,  toasted  her,  and  fought  duels  for  her  possession — 
you  don't  like  duels  ? — why,  she  was  engaged  to  three 
men  at  one  time,  and  after  all  she  went  off  with  a 
worthless  fellow." 

"That's  seems  to  me  rather  a  melancholy  history." 

"  Well,  she  is  a  most  charming  old  lady;  just  as  en- 
tertaining !  I  must  introduce  you.  But  this  is  his- 
tory. Now  look  !  There's  the  belle  of  Mobile,  that 
tall,  stately  brunette.  And  that  superb  figure,  you 
wouldn't  guess  she  is  the  belle  of  Selrna.  There  is  a 
fascinating  girl.  What  a  mixture  of  languor  and  vi- 
vacity !  Creole,  you  know;  full  blood.  She  is  the 
belle  of  New  Orleans — or  one  of  them.  Oh!  do  you 
see  that  Paris  dress  ?  I  must  look  at  it  again  when  it 
comes  round;  she  carries  it  well,  too — belle  of  Rich- 


222  Their  Pilgrimage. 

mond.  And,  see  there;  there's  one  of  the  prettiest 
girls  in  the  South — belle  of  Macon.  And  that  hand- 
some woman  —  Nashville?  —  Louisville?  See,  that's 
the  new-comer  from  Ohio."  And  so  the  procession 
went  on,  and  the  enumeration — belle  of  Montgomery, 
belle  of  Augusta,  belle  of  Charleston,  belle  of  Savan- 
nah, belle  of  Atlanta — always  the  belle  of  some  place. 

"  No,  I  don't  expect  you  to  say  that  these  are  pret- 
tier than  Northern  women;  but  just  between  friends, 
Mr.  King,  don't  you  think  the  North  might  make  a 
little  more  of  their  beautiful  women  ?  Yes,  you  are 
right;  she  is  handsome"  (King  was  bowing  to  Irene, 
who  was  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Meigs),  "  and  has  some- 
thing besides  beauty.  I  see  what  you  mean"  (King 
had  not  intimated  that  he  meant  anything),  "  but  don't 
you  dare  to  say  it." 

"  Oh,  I'm  quite  subdued." 

"  1  wouldn't  trust  you.  I  suppose  you  Yankees 
cannot  help  your  critical  spirit." 

"  Critical  ?  Why,  I've  heard  more  criticism  in  the 
last  half -hour  from  these  spectators  than  in  a  year  be- 
fore. And — I  wonder  if  you  will  let  me  say  it  ?" 

"Say  on." 

"  Seems  to  me  that  the  chief  topic  here  is  physical 
beauty — about  the  shape,  the  style,  the  dress,  of  wom- 
en, and  whether  this  or  that  one  is  well  made  and  hand- 
some." 

"  Well,  suppose  beauty  is  worshipped  in  the  South — 
we  worship  what  we  have;  we  haven't  much  money 
now,  you  know.  Would  you  mind  my  saying  that 
Mr.  Meigs  is  a  very  presentable  man  ?" 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like  about  Mr.  Meigs." 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


223 


"That's  the  reason  I 
took  him  away  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Thank  you." 
"He   is   full   of   infor- 
mation, and   so   unobtru- 
sive— " 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  that." 
"  And  I  think  he  ought 
to  be  encouraged.  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  ought 
to  do,  Mr.  King ;  you 
ought  to  give  a  german. 
If  you  do  not,  I  shall  put 
Mr.  Meigs  up  to  it — it  is 
the  thing  to  do  here." 

"  Mr.  Meigs  give  a  ger- 
man!" 

"Why  not?  You  see 
that  old  beau  there,  the 
one  smiling  and  bending 
towards  her  as  he  walks 
with  the  belle  of  Macon  ? 

He  does  not  look  any  older  than  Mr.  Meigs.  He  has 
been  coming  here  for  fifty  years;  he  owns  up  to  six- 
ty-five and  the  Mexican  war ;  it's  my  firm  belief  that 
he  was  out  in  1812.  Well,  he  has  led  the  german  here 
for  years.  You  will  find  Colonel  Fane  in  the  ball-room 
every  night.  Yes,  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Meigs." 

The  room  was  thinning  out.  King  found  himself 
in  front  of  a  row  of  dowagers,  whose  tongues  were 
still  going  about  the  departing  beauties.  "  No  mercy 


COLONEL  FANE. 


224  Their  Pilgrimage. 

there,"  he  heard  a  lady  say  to  her  companion;  "  that's 
a  jury  for  conviction  every  time."  What  confidential 
communication  Mrs.  Farquhar  made  to  Mr.  Meigs, 
King  never  knew,  but  he  took  advantage  of  the  diver- 
sion in  his  favor  to  lead  Miss  Benson  off  to  the  ball 
room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  days  went  by  at  the  White  Sulphur  on  the 
wings  of  incessant  gayety.  Literally  the  nights  were 
filled  with  music,  and  the  only  cares  that  infested  the 
day  appeared  in  the  anxious  faces  of  the  mothers  as 


"THE  ANXIOUS  FACES  OF  THE  MOTHERS.' 


15 


226  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  campaign  became  more  intricate  and  uncertain. 
King  watched  this  with  the  double  interest  of  spec- 
tator and  player.  The  artist  threw  himself  into  the 
mdlee  with  abandon,  and  pacified  his  conscience  by  an 
occasional  letter  to  Miss  Lamont,  in  which  he  con- 
fessed just  as  many  of  his  conquests  and  defeats  as  he 
thought  it  would  be  good  for  her  to  know. 

The  colored  people,  who  are  a  conspicuous  part  of  the 
establishment,,  are  a  source  of  never-failing  interest 
and  amusement.  Every  morning  the  mammies  and 
nurses  with  their  charges  were  seated  in  a  long,  shin- 
ing row  on  a  part  of  the  veranda  where  there  was  most 
passing  and  repassing,  holding  a  sort  of  baby  show, 
the  social  consequence  of  each  one  depending  upon  the 
rank  of  the  family  who  employed  her,  and  the  dress 
of  the  children  in  her  charge.  High-toned  conversa- 
tion on  these  topics  occupied  these  dignified  and  faith- 
ful mammies,  upon  whom  seemed  to  rest  to  a  consider- 
able extent  the  maintenance  of  the  aristocratic  social 
traditions.  Forbes  had  heard  that  while  the  colored 
people  of  the  South  had  suspended  several  of  the  ten 
commandments,  the  eighth  was  especially  regarded  as 
non-applicable  in  the  present  state  of  society.  But  he 
was  compelled  to  revise  this  opinion  as  to  the  White 
Sulphur.  Nobody  ever  locked  a  door  or  closed  a 
window.  Cottages  most  remote  were  left  for  hours 
open  and  without  guard,  miscellaneous  articles  of  the 
toilet  were  left  about,  trunks  were  not  locked,  waiters, 
chambermaids,  porters,  washerwomen,  were  constantly 
coming  and  going,  having  access  to  the  rooms  at  all 
hours,  and  yet  no  guest  ever  lost  so  much  as  a  hair- 
pin or  a  cigar.  This  fashion  of  trust  and  of  honesty 


228  Their  Pilgrimage. 

so  impressed  the  artist  that  he  said  he  should  make  an 
attempt  to  have  it  introduced  elsewhere.  This  sort  of 
esprit  de  corps  among  the  colored  people  was  unex- 
pected, and  he  wondered  if  they  are  not  generally  mis- 
understood by  writers  who  attribute  to  them  qualities 
of  various  kinds  that  they  do  not  possess.  The  negro 
is  not  witty,  or  consciously  humorous,  or  epigrammatic. 
The  humor  of  his  actions  and  sayings  lies  very  much 
in  a  certain  primitive  simplicity.  Forbes  couldn't  tell, 
for  instance,  why  he  was  amused  at  a  remark  he  heard 
one  morning  in  the  store.  A  colored  girl  sauntered 
in,  looking  about  vacantly.  "You  ain't  got  no  cotton, 
is  you  ?"  "  Why,  of  course  we  have  cotton."  "  Well  " 
(the  girl  only  wanted  an  excuse  to  say  something),  "I 
only  ast,  is  you  ?" 

Sports  of  a  colonial  and  old  English  flavor  that 
have  fallen  into  disuse  elsewhere  varied  the  life  at  the 
White.  One  day  the  gentlemen  rode  in  a  mule-race, 
the  slowest  mule  to  win,  and  this  feat  was  followed  by 
an  exhibition  of  negro  agility  in  climbing  the  greased 
pole  and  catching  the  greased  pig  ;  another  day  the 
cavaliers  contended  on  the  green  field,  surrounded  by 
a  brilliant  array  of  beauty  and  costume,  as  two  Ama- 
zon base-ball  nines,  the  one  nine  arrayed  in  yellow 
cambric  frocks  and  sun-bonnets,  and  the  other  in 
bright  red  gowns — the  whiskers  and  big  boots  and 
trousers  adding  nothing  whatever  to  the  illusion  of 
the  female  battle. 

The  two  tables,  King's  and  the  Bensons',  united  in  an 
expedition  to  the  Old  Sweet,  a  drive  of  eighteen  miles. 
Mrs.  Farquhar  arranged  the  affair,  and  assigned  the 
seats  in  the  carriages.  It  is  a  very  picturesque  drive, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  229 

as  are  all  the  drives  in  this  region,  and  if  King  did 
not  enjoy  it,  it  was  not  because  Mrs.  Farquhar  was 
not  even  more  entertaining  than  usual.  The  truth  is 
that  a  young  man  in  love  is  poor  company  for  himself 
and  for  everybody  else.  Even  the  object  of  his  pas- 
sion could  not  tolerate  him  unless  she  returned  it. 
Irene  and  Mr.  Meigs  rode  in  the  carriage  in  advance  of 
his,  and  King  thought  the  scenery  about  the  tamest  he 
had  ever  seen,  the  roads  bad,  the  horses  slow.  His  ill- 
humor,  however,  was  concentrated  on  one  spot ;  that 
was  Mr.  Meigs's  back;  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
more  disagreeable  back,  a  more  conceited  back.  It 
ought  to  have  been  a  delightful  day;  in  his  imag- 
ination it  was  to  be  an  eventful  day.  Indeed,  why 
shouldn't  the  opportunity  come  at  the  Old  Sweet,  at 
the  end  of  the  drive  ? — there  was  something  promising 
in  the  name.  Mrs.  Farquhar  was  in  a  mocking  mood 
all  the  way.  She  liked  to  go  to  the  Old  Sweet,  she 
said,  because  it  was  so  intolerably  dull;  it  was  a  sensa- 
tion. She  thought,  too,  that  it  might  please  Miss  Ben- 
son, there  was  such  a  fitness  in  the  thing — the  old  sweet 
to  the  Old  Sweet.  "  And  he  is  not  so  very  old  either," 
she  added;  "just  the  age  young  girls  like.  I  should 
think  Miss  Benson  in  danger — seriously,  now — if  she 
were  three  or  four  years  younger." 

The  Old  Sweet  is,  in  fact,  a  delightful  old-fashioned 
resort,  respectable  and  dull,  with  a  pretty  park,  and  a 
crystal  pond  that  stimulates  the  bather  like  a  glass  of 
champagne,  and  perhaps  has  the  property  of  restoring 
youth.  King  tried  the  spring,  which  he  heard  Mrs. 
Farquhar  soberly  commending  to  Mr.  Meigs;  and  after 
dinner  he  manoeuvred  for  a  half -hour  alone  with  Irene. 


230  Their  Pilgrimage. 

But  the  fates  and  the  women  were  against  him.  He 
had  the  mortification  to  see  her  stroll  away  with  Mr. 
Meigs  to  a  distant  part  of  the  grounds,  where  they  re- 
mained in  confidential  discourse  until  it  was  time  to 
return. 

In  the  rearrangement  of  seats  Mrs.  Farquhar  ex- 
changed with  Irene.  Mrs.  Farquhar  said  that  it  was 
very  much  like  going  to  a  funeral  each  way.  As  for 
Irene,  she  was  in  high,  even  feverish,  spirits,  and  rattled 
away  in  a  manner  that  convinced  King  that  she  was 
almost  too  happy  to  contain  herself. 

Notwithstanding  the  general  chaff,  the  singing,  and 
the  gayety  of  Irene,  the  drive  seemed  to  him  intoler- 
ably long.  At  the  half-way  house,  where  in  the  moon- 
light the  horses  drank  from  a  shallow  stream,  Mr.  Meigs 
came  forward  to  the  carriage  and  inquired  if  Miss  Ben- 
son was  sufficiently  protected  against  the  chilliness  of 
the  night.  King  had  an  impulse  to  offer  to  change 
seats  with  him;  but  no,  he  would  not  surrender  in  the 
face  of  the  enemy.  It  would  be  more  dignified  to 
quietly  leave  the  Springs  the  next  day. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  party  returned.  The 
carriage  drove  to  the  Benson  cottage;  King  helped 
Irene  to  alight,  coolly  bade  her  good-night,  and  went 
to  his  barracks.  But  it  was  not  a  good  night  to  sleep. 
He  tossed  about,  he  counted  every  step  of  the  late  night 
birds  on  his  gallery ;  he  got  up  and  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
tried  dispassionately  to  think  the  matter  over.  But 
thinking  was  of  no  use.  He  took  pen  and  paper;  he 
would  write  a  chill  letter  of  farewell;  he  would  write  a 
manly  avowal  of  his  passion;  he  would  make  such  an 
appeal  that  no  woman  could  resist  it.  She  must  know, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  231 

she  did  know — what  was  the  use  of  writing  ?  He  sat 
staring  at  the  blank  prospect.  Great  heavens !  what 
would  become  of  his  life  if  he  lost  the  only  woman  in 
the  world  ?  Probably  the  world  would  go  on  much  the 
same.  Why,  listen  to  it!  The  band  was  playing  on 
the,  lawn  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  A  party  was 
breaking  up  after  a  night  of  german  and  a  supper,  and 
the  revellers  were  dispersing.  The  lively  tunes  of 
"  Dixie,"  "  Marching  through  Georgia,"  and  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  awoke  the  echoes  in  all  the  galleries  and 
corridors,  and  filled  the  whole  encampment  with  a  sad 
gayety.  Dawn  was  approaching.  Good-nights  and 
farewells  and  laughter  were  heard,  and  the  voice  of 
a  wanderer  explaining  to  the  trees,  with  more  or  less 
broken  melody,  his  fixed  purpose  not  to  go  home  till 
morning. 

Stanhope  King  might  have  had  a  better  though  still 
a  sleepless  night  if  he  had  known  that  Mr.  Meigs  was 
packing  his  trunks  at  that  hour  to  the  tune  of  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  and  if  he  had  been  aware  of  the  scene  at 
the  Benson  cottage  after  he  bade  Irene  good-night. 
Mrs.  Benson  had  a  light  burning,  and  the  noise  of  the 
carriage  awakened  her.  Irene  entered  the  room,  saw 
that  her  mother  was  awake,  shut  the  door  carefully, 
sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  said,  "  It's  all  over, 
mother,"  and  burst  into  the  tears  of  a  long-repressed 
nervous  excitement. 

"What's  over,  child?"  cried  Mrs.  Benson,  sitting 
bolt-upright  in  bed. 

"  Mr.  Meigs.  I  had  to  tell  him  that  it  couldn't  be. 
And  he  is  one  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew." 

"You  don't  tell  me  you've  gone  and  refused  him, 
Irene?" 


232  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Please  don't  scold  me.  It  was  no  use.  He  ought 
to  have  seen  that  I  did  not  care  for  him,  except  as  a 
friend.  I'm  so  sorry!" 

"  You  are  the  strangest  girl  I  ever  saw."  And  Mrs. 
Benson  dropped  back  on  the  pillow  again,  crying  her- 
self now,  and  muttering,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
you  do  want." 

When  King  came  out  to  breakfast  he  encountered 
Mr.  Benson,  who  told  him  that  their  friend  Mr.  Meigs 
had  gone  off  that  morning — had  a  sudden  business  call 
to  Boston.  Mr.  Benson  did  not  seem  to  be  depressed 
ab6ut  it.  Irene  did  not  appear,  and  King  idled  away 
the  hours  with  his  equally  industrious  companion  un- 
der the  trees.  There  was  no  german  that  morning,  and 
the  hotel  band  was  going  through  its  repertoire  for  the 
benefit  of  a  champagne  party  on  the  Jawn.  There  was 
nothing  melancholy  about  this  party ;  and  King  couldn't 
help  saying  to  Mrs.  Farquhar  that  it  hardly  represented 
his  idea  of  the  destitution  and  depression  resulting  from 
the  war;  but  she  replied  that  they  must  do  something 
to  keep  up  their  spirits. 

"  And  I  think,"  said  the  artist,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing, from  the  little  distance  at  which  they  sat,  the  ta- 
ble of  the  revellers,  "  that  they  will  succeed.  Twenty- 
six  bottles  of  champagne,  and  not  many  more  guests! 
What  a  happy  people,  to  be  able  to  enjoy  champagne 
before  twelve  oclock  !" 

"Oh,  you  never  will  understand  us!"  said  Mrs. 
Farquhar  ;  "  there  is  nothing  spontaneous  in  you." 

"  We  do  not  begin  to  be  spontaneous  till  after  din- 
ner," said  King. 

"  And  then  it  is  all  calculated.     Think  of  Mr.  Forbes 


Their  Pilgrimage.  233 

counting  the  bottles!  Such  a  dreadfully  mercenary 
spirit !  Oh,  I  have  been  North.  Because  you  are  not 
so  open  as  we  are,  you  set  up  for  being  more  vir- 
tuous." 

"  And  you  mean,"  said  King,  "  that  frankness  and 
impulse  cover  a  multitude  of — " 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  of  the  sort.  I  just  mean 
that  conventionality  isn't  virtue.  You  yourself  con- 
fessed that  you  like  the  Southern  openness  right  much, 
and  vou  like  to  come  here,  and  you  like  the  Southern 
people  as  they  are  at  home." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  now  will  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Prim,  why  it  is  that 
almost  all  Northern  people  who  come  South  to  live  be- 
come more  Southern  than  the  Southerners  themselves; 
and  that  almost  all  Southern  people  who  go  North  to 
live  remain  just  as  Southern  as  ever  ?" 

"No.  Nor  do  I  understand  any  more  than  Dr. 
Johnson  did  why  the  Scotch,  who  couldn't  scratch  a 
living  at  home,  and  came  up  to  London,  always  kept 
on  bragging  about  their  native  land  and  abused  the 
metropolis." 

This  sort  of  sparring  went  on  daily,  with  the  result 
of  increasing  friendship  between  the  representatives  of 
the  two  geographical  sections,  and  commonly  ended 
with  the  declaration  on  Mrs.  Farquhar's  part  that  she 
should  never  know  that  King  was  not  born  in  the 
South  except  for  his  accent;  and  on  his  part  that  if 
Mrs.  Farquhar  would  conceal  her  delightful  Virginia 
inflection  she  would  pass  everywhere  at  the  North  for 
a  Northern  woman. 

"  I  hear,"  she  said,  later,  as  they  sat  alone,  "  that  Mr. 


234  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Meigs  has  beat  a  retreat,  saving  nothing  but  his  per- 
sonal baggage.  I  think  Miss  Benson  is  a  great  goose. 
Such  a  chance  for  an  establishment  and  a  position! 
You  didn't  half  appreciate  him." 

"I'm  afraid  I  did  not." 

"Well,  it  is  none  of  my  business;  but  I  hope  you 
understand  the  responsibility  of  the  situation.  If  you 
do  not,  I  want  to  warn  you  about  one  thing:  don't  go 
strolling  off  before  sunset  in  the  Lovers'  Walk.  It  is 
the  most  dangerous  place.  It  is  a  fatal  place.  I  sup- 
pose every  turn  in  it,  every  tree  that  has  a  knoll  at  the 
foot  where  two  persons  can  sit,  has  witnessed  a  tragedy, 
or,  what  is  worse,  a  comedy.  There  are  legends  enough 
about  it  to  fill  a  book.  Maybe  there  is  not  a  Southern 
woman  living  who  has  not  been  engaged  there  once  at 
least.  I'll  tell  you  a  little  story  for  a  warning.  Some 
years  ago  there  was  a  famous  belle  here  who  had  the 
Springs  at  her  feet,  and  half  a  dozen  determined  suit- 
ors. One  of  them,  who  had  been  unable  to  make  the 
least  impression  on  her  heart,  resolved  to  win  her  by  a 
stratagem.  Walking  one  evening  on  the  hill  with  her, 
the  two  stopped  just  at  a  turn  in  the  walk — I  can  show 
you  the  exact  spot,  with  a  chaperon — and  he  fell  into 
earnest  discourse  with  her.  She  was  as  cool  and  repel- 
lent as  usual.  Just  then  he  heard  a  party  approach- 
ing ;  his  chance  had  come.  The  moment  the  party 
came  in  sight  he  suddenly  kissed  her.  Everybody  saw 
it.  The  witnesses  discreetly  turned  back.  The  girl 
was  indignant.  But  the  deed  was  done.  In  half  an 
hour  the  whole  Springs  would  know  it.  She  was  com- 
promised. No  explanation  could  do  away  with  the  fact 
that  she  had  been  kissed  in  Lovers'  Walk.  But  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  235 

girl  was  game,  and  that  evening  the  engagement  was 
announced  in  the  drawing-room.  Isn't  that  a  pretty 
story  ?" 

However  much  Stanhope  might  have  been  alarmed 
at  this  recital,  he  betrayed  nothing  of  his  fear  that 
evening  when,  after  walking  to  the  spring  with  Irene, 
the  two  sauntered  along,  and  unconsciously,  as  it 
seemed,  turned  up  the  hill  into  that  winding  path 
which  has  been  trodden  by  generations  of  lovers  with 
loitering  steps — steps  easy  to  take  and  so  hard  to  re- 
trace! It  is  a  delightful  forest,  the  wTalk  winding 
about  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  and  giving  charming 
prospects  of  intervals,  stream,  and  mountains.  To  one 
in  the  mood  for  a  quiet  hour  with  nature,  no  scene 
could  be  more  attractive. 

The  couple  walked  on,  attempting  little  conversa- 
tion, both  apparently  prepossessed  and  constrained. 
The  sunset  was  spoken  of,  and  when  Irene  at  length 
suggested  turning  back,  that  was  declared  to  be  King's 
object  in  ascending  the  hill  to  a  particular  point;  but 
whether  either  of  them  saw  the  sunset,  or  would  have 
known  it  from  a  sunrise,  I  cannot  say.  The  drive  to 
the  Old  Sweet  was  pleasant.  Yes,  but  rather  tiresome. 
Mr.  Meigs  had  gone  away  suddenly.  Yes;  Irene  was 
sorry  his  business  should  have  called  him  away.  Was 
she  very  sorry  ?  She  wouldn't  lie  awake  at  night  over 
it,  but  he  was  a  good  friend.  The  time  passed  very 
quickly  here.  Yes  ;  one  couldn't  tell  how  it  went ; 
the  days  just  melted  away;  the  two  weeks  seemed  like 
a  day.  They  were  going  away  the  next  day.  King 
said  he  was  going  also. 

"  And,"  he  added,  as  if  with  an  effort,  "  when  the 


236  Their  Pilgrimage. 

season  is  over,  Miss  Benson,  I  am  going  to  settle  down 
to  work." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  said,  turning  upon  him  a  face 
glowing  with  approval. 

"  Yes,  I  have  arranged  to  go  on  with  practice  in  my 
uncle's  office.  I  remember  what  you  said  about  a 
dilettante  life." 

"Why,  I  never  said  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  But  you  looked  it.     It  is  all  the  same." 

They  had  come  to  the  crown  of  the  hill,  and  stood 
looking  over  the  intervals  to  the  purple  mountains. 
Irene  was  deeply  occupied  in  tying  up  with  grass 
a  bunch  of  wild  flowers.  Suddenly  he  seized  her 
hand. 

"  Irene  !" 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  turning  away.  The  flowers 
dropped  from  her  hand. 

"  You  must  listen,  Irene.     I  love  you — I  love  you." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him;  her  lips  trembled; 
her  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  there  was  a  great  look  of 
wonder  and  tenderness  in  her  face. 

" Is  it  all  true?" 

She  was  in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her  hair,  her  eyes — 
ah  me!  it  is  the  old  story.  It  had  always  been  true. 
He  loved  her  from  the  first,  at  Fortress  Monroe,  every 
minute  since.  And  she — well,  perhaps  she  could  learn 
to  love  him  in  time,  if  he  was  very  good;  yes,  maybe 
she  had  loved  him  a  little  at  Fortress  Monroe.  How 
could  he  ?  what  was  there  in  her  to  attract  him  ? 
What  a  wonder  it  was  that  she  could  tolerate  him! 
What  could  she  see  in  him  ? 

So  this  impossible  thing,  this  miracle,  was  explained  ? 


"SHE   WAS   IN   HIS   ARMS." 


238  Their  Pilgrimage. 

No,  indeed  !  It  had  to  be  inquired  into  and  explained 
over  and  over  again,  this  absolutely  new  experience  of 
two  people  loving  each  other. 

She  could  speak  now  of  herself,  of  her  doubt  that  he 
could  know  his  own  heart  and  be  stronger  than  the 
social  traditions,  and  would  not  mind,  as  she  thought 
he  did  at  Newport — just  a  little  bit — the  opinions  of 
other  people.  I  do  not  by  any  means  imply  that  she 
said  all  this  bluntly,  or  that  she  took  at  all  the  tone  of 
apology  ;  but  she  contrived,  as  a  woman  can  without 
saying  much,  to  let  him  see  why  she  had  distrusted, 
not  the  sincerity,  but  the  perseverance  of  his  love. 
There  would  never  be  any  more  doubt  now.  What  a 
wonder  it  all  is  ! 

The  two  parted — alas  !  alas  !  till  supper-time  ! — I 
don't  know  why  scoifers  make  so  light  of  these  part- 
ings— at  the  foot  of  the  main  stairs  of  the  hotel  gal- 
lery, just  as  Mrs.  Farquhar  was  descending.  Irene's 
face  was  radiant  as  she  ran  away  from  Mrs.  Farquhar. 

"  Bless  you,  my  children  !  I  see  my  warning  was  in 
vain,  Mr.  King.  It  is  a  fatal  walk.  It  always  was  in 
our  family.  Oh,  youth  !  youth  !"  A  shade  of  melan- 
choly came  over  her  charming  face  as  she  turned  alone 
towards  the  spring. 


CHAPTER   X. 

MRS.  FARQUHAR,  Colonel  Fane,  and  a  great  many  of 
their  first  and  second  cousins  were  at  the  station  the 
morning  the  Bensons  and  King  and  Forbes  departed 
for  the  North.  The  gallant  colonel  was  foremost  in 
his  expressions  of  regret,  and  if  he  had  been  the  pro- 
prietor of  Virginia,  and  of  the  entire  South  added 
thereto,  and  had  been  anxious  to  close  out  the  whole 
lot  on  favorable  terms  to  the  purchaser,  he  would  not 
have  exhibited  greater  solicitude  as  to  the  impression 
the  visitors  had  received.  This  solicitude  was,  how- 
ever, wholly  in  his  manner — and  it  is  the  traditional 
manner  that  has  nearly  passed  away — for  underneath 
all  this  humility  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  South 
had  conferred  a  great  favor,  sir,  upon  these  persons  by 
a  recognition  of  their  merits. 

"  I  am  not  come  to  give  you  good-bye,  but  au  re- 
voir"  said  Mrs.  Farquhar  to  Stanhope  and  Irene,  who 
were  standing  apart.  "  I  hate  to  go  North  in  the 
summer,  it  is  so  hot  and  crowded  and  snobbish,  but  I 
dare  say  I  shall  meet  you  somewhere,  for  I  confess  I 
don't  like  to  lose  sight  of  so  much  happiness.  No,  no, 
Miss  Benson,  you  need  not  thank  me,  even  with  a 
blush;  I  am  not  responsible  for  this  state  of  things. 
I  did  all  I  could  to  warn  you,  and  I  tell  you  now  that 
my  sympathy  is  with  Mr.  Meigs,  who  never  did  either 


24:0  Their  Pilgrimage. 

of  you  any  harm,  and  I  think  has  been  very  badly 
treated." 

"  I  don't  know  any  one,  Mrs.  Farquhar,  who  is  so 
capable  of  repairing  his  injuries  as  yourself,"  said 
King. 

"  Thank  you;  I'm  not  used  to  such  delicate  elephan- 
tine compliments.  It  is  just  like  a  man,  Miss  Benson, 
to  try  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone — get  rid  of  a 
rival  by  sacrificing  a  useless  friend.  All  the  same, 
au  revoir" 

"  We  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,"  replied  Irene,  "  you 
know  that,  wherever  we  are;  and  we  will  try  to  make 
the  North  tolerable  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  hide  my  pride  and  go.  If  you  were 
not  all  so  rich  up  there  !  Not  that  I  object  to  wealth; 
I  enjoy  it.  I  think  I  shall  take  to  that  old  prayer — 
'  May  my  lot  be  with  the  rich  in  this  world,  and  with 
the  South  in  the  next  !'  " 

I  suppose  there  never  was  such  a  journey  as  that 
from  the  White  Sulphur  to  New  York.  If  the  Vir- 
ginia scenery  had  seemed  to  King  beautiful  when  he 
came  down,  it  was  now  transcendently  lovely.  He 
raved  about  it,  when  I  saw  him  afterwards  —  the  Blue 
Ridge,  the  wheat  valleys,  the  commercial  advantages, 
the  mineral  resources  of  the  state,  the  grand  old  tra- 
ditional Heaven  knows  what  of  the  Old  Dominion;  as 
to  details  he  was  obscure,  and  when  I  pinned  him  down, 
he  was  not  certain  which  route  they  took.  It  is  my 
opinion  that  the  most  costly  scenery  in  the  world  is 
thrown  away  upon  a  pair  of  newly  plighted  lovers. 

The  rest  of  the  party  were  in  good  spirits.  Even 
Mrs.  Benson,  who  was  at  first  a  little  bewildered  at  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  241 

failure  of  her  admirably  planned  campaign,  accepted 
the  situation  with  serenity. 

"  So  you  are  engaged  !"  she  said,  when  Irene  went 
to  her  with  the  story  of  the  little  affair  in  Lovers'  Walk. 
"  I  suppose  he'll  like  it.  He  always  took  a  fancy  to 
Mr.  King.  No,  I  haven't  any  objections,  Irene,  and 
I  hope  you'll  be  happy.  Mr.  King  was  always  very  po- 
lite to  me — only  he  didn't  never  seem  exactly  like  our 
folks.  We  only  want  you  to  be  happy."  And  the  old 
lady  declared  with  a  shaky  voice,  and  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks,  that  she  was  perfectly  happy  if  Irene 
was. 

Mr.  Meigs,  the  refined,  the  fastidious,  the  man  of  the 
world,  who  had  known  how  to  adapt  himself  perfectly 
to  Mrs.  Benson,  might  nevertheless  have  been  surprised 
at  her  implication  that  he  was  "like  our  folks." 

At  the  station  in  Jersey  City — a  place  suggestive  of 
love  and  romance  and  full  of  tender  associations  —  the 
party  separated  for  a  few  days,  the  Bensons  going  to 
Saratoga,  and  King  accompanying  Forbes  to  Long 
Branch,  in  pursuance  of  an  agreement  which,  not  being 
in  writing,  he  was  unable  to  break.  As  the  two  friends 
went  in  the  early  morning  down  to  the  coast  over  the 
level  salt  meadows,  cut  by  bayous  and  intersected  by 
canals,  they  were  curiously  reminded  both  of  the 
Venice  lagoons  and  the  plains  of  the  Teche;  and  the 
artist  went  into  raptures  over  the  colors  of  the  land- 
scape, which  he  declared  was  Oriental  in  softness  and 
blending.  Patriotic  as  we  are,  we  still  turn  to  foreign 
lands  for  our  comparisons. 

Long  Branch  and  its  adjuncts  were  planned  for  New 
York  excursionists  who  are  content  with  the  ocean  and 
16 


Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  salt  air,  and  do  not  care  much  for  the  picturesque. 
It  can  be  described  in  a  phrase :  a  straight  line  of  sandy 
coast  with  a  high  bank,  parallel  to  it  a  driveway,  and 
an  endless  row  of  hotels  and  cottages.  Knowing  what 
the  American  sea-side  cottage  and  hotel  are,  it  is  un- 
necessary to  go  to  Long  Branch  to  have  an  accurate  pict- 
ure of  it  in  the  mind.  Seen  from  the  end  of  the  pier, 
the  coast  appears  to  be  all  built  up — a  thin,  straggling 
city  by  the  sea.  The  line  of  buildings  is  continuous 
for  two  miles,  from  Long  Branch  to  Elberon;  midway 
is  the  West  End,  where  our  tourists  were  advised  to  go 
as  the  best  post  of  observation,  a  medium  point  of  re- 
spectability between  the  excursion  medley  of  one  ex- 
tremity and  the  cottage  refinement  of  the  other,  and 
equally  convenient  to  the  races,  which  attract  crowds 
of  metropolitan  betting  men  and  betting  women.  The 
fine  toilets  of  these  children  of  fortune  are  not  less  ad- 
mired than  their  fashionable  race-course  manners.  The 
satirist  who  said  that  Atlantic  City  is  typical  of  Phila- 
delphia, said  also  that  Long  Branch  is  typical  of  New 
York.  What  Mr.  King  said  was  that  the  satirist 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  good  society  of  either 
place. 

All  the  summer  resorts  get  somehow  a  certain  char- 
acter, but  it  is  not  easy  always  to  say  how  it  is  pro- 
duced. The  Long  Branch  region  was  the  resort  of 
politicians,  and  of  persons  of  some  fortune  who  con- 
nect politics  with  speculation.  Society,  which  in 
America  does  not  identify  itself  with  politics  as  it  does 
in  England,  was  not  specially  attracted  by  the  news- 
paper notoriety  of  the  place,  although  fashion  to  some 
extent  declared  in  favor  of  Elberon. 


AT   THE    RACES. 

In  the  morning  the  artist  went  up  to  the  pier  at  the 
bathing  hour.  Thousands  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren were  tossing  about  in  the  lively  surf  promiscuous- 
ly, revealing  to  the  spectators  such  forms  as  Nature 
had  given  them,  with  a  modest  confidence  in  her  handi- 
work. It  seemed  to  the  artist,  who  was  a  student  of 
the  human  figure,  that  many  of  these  people  would 
not  have  bathed  in  public  if  Nature  had  made  them 


24:4:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

self-conscious.  All  down  the  shore  were  pavilions  and 
bath-houses,  and  the  scene  at  a  distance  was  not  unlike 
that  when  the  water  is  occupied  by  schools  of  leaping 
mackerel.  An  excursion  steamer  from  New  York 
landed  at  the  pier.  The  passengers  were  not  of  any 
recognized  American  type,  but  mixed  foreign  races — a 
crowd  of  respectable  people  who  take  their  rare  holi- 
days rather  seriously,  and  offer  little  of  interest  to  an 
artist.  The  boats  that  arrive  at  night  are  said  to  bring 
a  less  respectable  cargo. 

It  is  a  pleasant  walk  or  drive  down  to  Elberon  when 
there  is  a  sea-breeze,  especially  if  there  happen  to  be  a 
dozen  yachts  in  the  offing.  Such  elegance  as  this  water- 
ing-place has  lies  in  this  direction;  the  Elberon  is  a  re- 
fined sort  of  hotel,  and  has  near  it  a  group  of  pretty 
cottages,  not  too  fantastic  for  holiday  residences,  and 


A   DRIVE   TO   ELBERON. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  245 

even  the  "  greeny-yellowy  "  ones  do  not  much  offend, 
for  eccentricities  of  color  are  toned  down  by  the  sea 
atmosphere.  These  cottages  have  excellent  lawns  set 
with  brilliant  beds  of  flowers,  and  the  turf  rivals  that  of 
Newport;  but  without  a  tree  or  shrub  anywhere  along 
the  shore  the  aspect  is  too  unrelieved  and  photographi- 
cally distinct.  Here  as  elsewhere  the  cottage  life  is 
taking  the  place  of  hotel  life. 

There  were  few  handsome  turnouts  on  the  main 
drive,  and  perhaps  the  popular  character  of  the  place 
was  indicated  by  the  use  of  omnibuses  instead  of  car- 
riages. For,  notwithstanding  Elberon  and  such  fashion 
as  is  there  gathered,  Long  Branch  lacks  "  style."  After 
the  White  Sulphur,  it  did  not  seem  to  King  alive  with 
gayety,  nor  has  it  any  society.  In  the  hotel  parlors 
there  is  music  in  the  evenings,  but  little  dancing  except 
by  children.  Large  women,  offensively  dressed,  sit 
about  the  veranda,  and  give  a  heavy  and  "  company  " 
air  to  the  drawing-rooms.  No,  the  place  is  not  gay. 
The  people  come  here  to  eat,  to  bathe,  to  take  the  air; 
and  these  are  reasons  enough  for  being  here.  Upon 
the  artist,  alert  for  social  peculiarities,  the  scene  made 
little  impression,  for  to  an  artist  there  is  a  limit  to  the 
interest  of  a  crowd  showily  dressed,  though  they  blaze 
with  diamonds. 

It  was  in  search  of  something  different  from  this 
that  King  and  Forbes  took  the  train  and  travelled  six 
miles  to  Asbury  Park  and  Ocean  Grove.  These  great 
summer  settlements  are  separated  by  a  sheet  of  fresh 
water  three  quarters  of  a  mile  long;  its  sloping  banks 
are  studded  with  pretty  cottages,  its  surface  is  alive 
with  boats  gay  with  awnings  of  red  and  blue  and  green, 


246  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  seats  of  motley  color,  and  is  altogether  a  fairy  spec- 
tacle. Asbury  Park  is  the  worldly  correlative  of  Ocean 
Grove,  and  esteems  itself  a  notch  above  it  in  social  tone. 
Each  is  a  city  of  small  houses,  and  each  is  teeming  with 
life,  but  Ocean  Grove,  whose  centre  is  the  camp-meet- 
ing tabernacle,  lodges  its  devotees  in  tents  as  well  as 
cottages,  and  copies  the  architecture  of  Oak  Bluffs. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  two  cities  meet  on  the  two-mile- 
long  plank  promenade  by  the  sea. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  place  on  the  coast  that  would 
more  astonish  the  foreigner  than  Ocean  Grove,  and  if 
he  should  describe  it  faithfully  he  would  be  unpopular 
with  its  inhabitants.  He  would  be  astonished  at  the 
crowds  at  the  station,  the  throngs  in  the  streets,  the 
shops  and  stores  for  supplying  the  wants  of  the  relig- 
ious pilgrims,  and  used  as  he  might  be  to  the  promiscu- 
ous bathing  along  our  coast,  he  would  inevitably  com- 
ment upon  tne  freedom  existing  here.  He  would  see 
women  in  their  bathing  dresses,  wet  and  clinging,  walk- 
ing in  the  streets  of  the  town,  and  he  would  read  no- 
tices posted  up  by  the  camp-meeting  authorities  for- 
bidding women  so  clad  to  come  upon  the  tabernacle 
ground.  He  would  also  read  placards  along  the  beach 
explaining  the  reason  why  decency  in  bathing  suits  is 
desirable,  and  he  would  wonder  why  such  notices 
should  be  necessary.  If,  however,  he  walked  along 
the  shore  at  bathing  times  he  might  be  enlightened, 
and  he  would  see  besides  a  certain  simplicity  of  social 
life  which  sophisticated  Europe  has  no  parallel  for.  A 
peculiar  custom  here  is  sand-burrowing.  To  lie  in  the 
warm  sand,  which  accommodates  itself  to  any  position 
of  the  body,  and  listen  to  the  dash  of  the  waves,  is  a 


IN  THE   SURF. 


248  Their  Pilgrimage. 

dreamy  and  delightful  way  of  spending  a  summer  day. 
The  beach  for  miles  is  strewn  with  these  sand-burrow  - 
ers  in  groups  of  two  or  three  or  half  a  dozen,  or  single 
figures  laid  out  like  the  effigies  of  Crusaders.  One  en- 
counters these  groups  sprawling  in  all  attitudes,  and 
frequently  asleep  in  their  promiscuous  beds.  The 
foreigner  is  forced  to  see  all  this,  because  it  is  a  public 
exhibition.  A  couple  in  bathing  suits  take  a  dip  to- 
gether in  the  sea,  and  then  lie  down  in  the  sand.  The 
artist  proposed  to  make  a  sketch  of  one  of  these  primi- 
tive couples,  but  it  was  impossible  to  do  so,  because 
they  lay  in  a  trench  which  they  had  scooped  in  the 
sand  two  feet  deep,  and  had  hoisted  an  umbrella  over 
their  heads.  The  position  was  novel  and  artistic,  but 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  artist.  It  was  a  great  pity, 
because  art  is  never  more  agreeable  than  when  it  con- 
cerns itself  with  domestic  life. 

While  this  charming  spectacle  was  exhibited  at  the 
beach,  afternoon  service  was  going  on  in  the  taber- 
nacle, and  King  sought  that  in  preference.  The  vast 
audience  under  the  canopy  directed  its  eyes  to  a  man 
on  the  platform,  who  was  violently  gesticulating  and 
shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  King,  fresh  from  the 
scenes  of  the  beach,  listened  a  long  time,  expecting  to 
hear  some  close  counsel  on  the  conduct  of  life,  but  he 
heard  nothing  except  the  vaguest  emotional  exhorta- 
tion. By  this  the  audience  were  apparently  unmoved, 
for  it  was  only  when  the  preacher  paused  to  get  his 
breath  on  some  word  on  which  he  could  dwell  by  rea- 
eon  of  its  vowels,  like  w-o-r-l-d  or  a-n-d,  that  he  awoke 
any  response  from  his  hearers.  The  spiritual  exercise 
of  prayer  which  followed  was  even  more  of  a  physical 


Their  Pilgrimage.  249 

demonstration,  and  it  aroused  more  response.  The 
officiating  minister,  kneeling  at  the  desk,  gesticulated 
furiously,  doubled  up  his  fists  and  shook  them  on 
high,  stretched  out  both  arms,  and  pounded  the  pulpit. 
Among  people  of  his  own  race  King  had  never  before 
seen  anything  like  this,  and  he  went  away  a  sadder  if  not 
a  wiser  man,  having  at  least  learned  one  lesson  of  char- 
ity— never  again  to  speak  lightly  of  a  negro  religious 
meeting. 

This  vast  city  of  the  sea  has  many  charms,  and  is 
the  resort  of  thousands  of  people,  who  find  here  health 
and  repose.  But  King,  who  was  immensely  interested 
in  it  all  as  one  phase  of  American  summer  life,  was 
glad  that  Irene  was  not  at  Ocean  Grove. 


CHAPTER   XT. 

IT  was  the  22d  of  August,  and  the  height  of  the 
season  at  Saratoga.  Familiar  as  King  had  been  with 
these  Springs,  accustomed  as  the  artist  was  to  foreign 
Spas,  the  scene  was  a  surprise  to  both.  They  had 
been  told  that  fashion  had  ceased  to  patronize  it,  and 
that  its  old-time  character  was  gone.  But  Saratoga 
is  too  strong  for  the  whims  of  fashion;  its  existence 
does  not  depend  upon  its  decrees;  it  has  reached  the 
point  where  it  cannot  be  killed  by  the  inroads  of  Jew 
or  Gentile.  In  ceasing  to  be  a  society  centre,  it  has 
become  in  a  manner  metropolitan ;  for  the  season  it  is 
no  longer  a  provincial  village,  but  the  meeting-place 
of  as  mixed  and  heterogeneous  a  throng  as  flows  into 
New  York  from  all  the  Union  in  the  autumn  shop- 
ping period. 

It  was  race  week,  but  the  sporting  men  did  not  give 
Saratoga  their  complexion.  It  was  convention  time, 
but  except  in  the  hotel  corridors  politicians  were  not 
the  feature  of  the  place.  One  of  the  great  hotels  was 
almost  exclusively  occupied  by  the  descendants  of 
Abraham,  but  the  town  did  not  at  all  resemble  Jeru- 
salem. Innumerable  boarding-houses  swarmed  with 
city  and  country  clergymen,  who  have  a  well-founded 
impression  that  the  waters  of  the  springs  have  a  benefi- 
cent relation  to  the  bilious  secretions  of  the  year,  but 


Their  Pilgrimage.  251 

the  resort  had  not  an  oppressive  air  of  sanctity.  Near- 
ly every  prominent  politician  in  the  state  and  a  good 
many  from  other  states  registered  at  the  hotels,  but 
no  one  seemed  to  think  that  the  country  was  in  danger. 
Hundreds  of  men  and  women  were  there  because  they 
had  been  there  every  year  for  thirty  or  forty  years 
back,  and  they  have  no  doubt  that  their  health  abso- 
lutely requires  a  week  at  Saratoga;  yet  the  village  has 
not  the  aspect  of  a  sanitarium.  The  hotel  dining-rooms 
and  galleries  were  thronged  with  large,  overdressed 
women  who  glittered  with  diamonds  and  looked  un- 
comfortable in  silks  and  velvets,  and  Broadway  was 
gay  with  elegant  equipages,  but  nobody  would  go  to 
Saratoga  to  study  the  fashions.  Perhaps  the  most  im- 
pressive spectacle  in  this  lowly  world  was  the  row  of 
millionaires  sunning  themselves  every  morning  on  the 
piazza  of  the  States,  solemn  men  in  black  broadcloth 
and  white  hats,  who  said  little,  but  looked  rich;  vis- 
itors used  to  pass  that  way  casually,  and  the  towns- 
people regarded  them  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  if  they 
were  the  king-pins  of  the  whole  social  fabric ;  but  even 
these  magnates  were  only  pleasing  incidents  in  the  ka- 
leidoscopic show. 

The  first  person  King  encountered  on  the  piazza  of 
the  Grand  Union  was  not  the  one  he  most  wished  to 
see,  although  it  could  never  be  otherwise  than  agree- 
able to  meet  his  fair  cousin,  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow.  She 
was  in  a  fresh  morning  toilet,  dainty,  comme  il  faut, 
radiant,  with  that  unobtrusive  manner  of  "society" 
which  made  the  present  surroundings  appear  a  trifle 
vulgar  to  King,  and  to  his  self-disgust  forced  upon  him 
the  image  of  Mrs.  Benson. 


"SOLEMN  MEN  WHO  SAID  LITTLE,  BUT  LOOKED  RICH." 

"  You  here  ?"  was  his  abrupt  and  involuntary  ex- 
clamation. 

"  Yes — why  not  ?"  And  then  she  added,  as  if  from 
the  Newport  point  of  view  some  explanation  were  neces- 
sary: "My  husband  thinks  he  must  come  here  for  a 
week  every  year  to  take  the  waters;  it's  an  old  habit, 
and  I  find  it  amusing  for  a  few  days.  Of  course  there 
is  nobody  here.  Will  you  take  me  to  the  spring  ? — 
Yes,  Congress.  I'm  too  old  to  change.  If  I  believed 
the  pamphlets  the  proprietors  write  about  each  other's 
springs  I  should  never  go  to  either  of  them." 

Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  was  not  alone  in  saying  that  no- 
body was  there.  There  were  scores  of  ladies  at  each 
hotel  who  said  the  same  thing,  and  who  accounted  for 


Their  Pilgrimage.  253 

their  own  presence  there  in  the  way  she  did.  And  they 
were  not  there  at  all  in  the  same  way  they  would  be 
later  at  Lenox.  Mrs.  Pendragon,  of  New  Orleans,  who 
was  at  the  United  States,  would  have  said  the  same 
thing,  remembering  the  time  when  the  Southern  colony 
made  a  very  distinct  impression  upon  the  social  life  of 
the  place;  and  the  Ashleys,  who  had  put  up  at  the  Con- 
gress Hall  in  company  with  an  old  friend,  a  returned 
foreign  minister,  who  stuck  to  the  old  traditions — even 
the  Ashleys  said  they  were  only  lookers-on  at  the  pageant. 

Paying  their  entrance,  and  passing  through  the  turn- 
stile in  the  pretty  pavilion  gate,  they  stood  in  the  Con- 
gress Spring  Park.  The  band  was  playing  in  the  kiosk ; 
the  dew  still  lay  on  the  flowers  and  the  green  turf;  the 
miniature  lake  sparkled  in  the  suri.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  artificial  scenes  in  the  world;  to  be  sure, 
nature  set  the  great  pine-trees  on  the  hills,  and  made 
the  graceful  little  valley,  but  art  and  exquisite  taste 
have  increased  the  apparent  size  of  the  small  plot  of 
ground,  and  filled  it  with  beauty.  It  is  a  gem  of  a 
place  with  a  character  of  its  own,  although  its  pretti- 
ness  suggests  some  foreign  Spa.  Groups  of  people, 
having  taken  the  water,  were  strolling  about  the  grav- 
elled paths,  sitting  on  the  slopes  overlooking  the  pond, 
or  wandering  up  the  glen  to  the  tiny  deer  park. 

"  So  you  have  been  at  the  White  Sulphur?"  said  Mrs. 
Glow.  "  How  did  you  like  it  ?" 

"  Immensely.  It's  the  only  place  left  where  there  is 
a  congregate  social  life." 

"  You  mean  provincial  life.  Everybody  knows  every- 
body else." 

"  Well,  King  retorted,  with  some  spirit,  "  it  is  not  a 


254  Their  Pilgrimage. 

place  where  people  pretend  not  to  know  each  other,  as 
if  their  salvation  depended  on  it." 

"  Oh,  I  see  ;  hospitable,  frank,  cordial  —  all  that. 
Stanhope,  do  you  know,  I  think  you  are  a  little  de- 
moralized this  summer.  Did  you  fall  in  love  with  a 
Southern  belle  ?  Who  was  there  ?" 

"  Well,  all  the  South,  pretty  much.  I  didn't  fall  in 
love  with  all  the  belles ;  we  were  there  only  two  weeks. 
Oh  !  there  was  a  Mrs.  Farquhar  there." 

"  Georgiana  Randolph !  Georgie  !  How  did  she  look  ? 
We  were  at  Madame  Sequin's  together,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  seasons  in  Paris.  Georgie  !  She  was  the  hand- 
somest, the  wittiest,  the  most  fascinating  woman  I  ever 
saw.  I  hope  she  didn't  give  you  a  turn  ?" 

"  Oh  no.  But  we  were  very  good  friends.  She  is  a 
very  handsome  woman — perhaps  you  would  expect  me 
to  say  handsome  still;  but  that  seems  a  sort  of  treason 
to  her  mature  beauty." 

"  And  who  else  ?" 

"Oh,  the  Storbes  from  New  Orleans,  the  Slifers 
from  Mobile — no  end  of  people — some  from  Phila- 
delphia— and  Ohio." 

"  Ohio?  Those  Bensons  !"  said  she,  turning  sharply 
on  him. 

"  Yes,  those  Bensons,  Penelope.     Why  not  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  It's  a  free  country.  I  hope,  Stan- 
hope, you  didn't  encourage  her.  You  might  make  her 
very  unhappy." 

"I  trust  not,"  said  King,  stoutly.  "We  are  en- 
gaged." 

"  Engaged  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Glow,  in  a  tone  that  im- 
plied a  whole  world  of  astonishment  and  improbability. 


256  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Yes,  and  you  are  just  in  time  to  congratulate  us. 
There  they  are  !" 

Mr.  Benson,  Mrs.  Benson,  and  Irene  were  coming 
down  the  walk  from  the  deer  park.  King  turned  to 
meet  them,  but  Mrs.  Glow  was  close  at  his  side,  and 
apparently  as  pleased  at  seeing  them  again  as  the  lover. 
Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  the  grace  and 
welcome  she  threw  into  her  salutations.  She  shook 
hands  with  Mr.  Benson;  she  was  delighted  to  meet 
Mrs.  Benson  again,  and  gave  her  both  her  little  hands ; 
she  almost  embraced  Irene,  placed  a  hand  on  each 
shoulder,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  and  said  something 
in  a  low  voice  that  brought  the  blood  to  the  girl's  face 
and  suffused  her  eyes  with  tenderness. 

When  the  party  returned  to  the  hotel  the  two 
women  were  walking  lovingly  arm  in  arm,  and  King- 
was  following  after,  in  the  more  prosaic  atmosphere  of 
Cyrusville,  Ohio.  The  good  old  lady  began  at  once  to 
treat  King  as  one  of  the  family;  she  took  his  arm,  and 
leaned  heavily  on  it,  as  they  walked,  and  confided  to 
him  all  her  complaints.  The  White  Sulphur  waters, 
she  said,  had  not  done  her  a  mite  of  good;  she  didn't 
know  but  she'd  oughter  see  a  doctor,  but  he  said  that 
it  warn't  nothing  but  indigestion.  Now  the  White 
Sulphur  agreed  with  Irene  better  than  any  other  place, 
and  I  guess  that  I  know  the  reason  why,  Mr.  King, 
she  said,  with  a  faintly  facetious  smile.  Meantime 
Mrs.  Glow  was  talking  to  Irene  on  the  one  topic  that 
a  maiden  is  never  weary  of,  her  lover;  and  so  adroitly 
mingled  praises  of  him  with  flattery  of  herself  that  the 
girl's  heart  went  out  to  her  in  entire  trust. 

"  She  is  a  charming  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Glow  to  King, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  257 

later.  "  She  needs  a  little  forming,  but  that  will  be 
easy  when  she  is  separated  from  her  family.  Don't 
inteiTupt  me.  I  like  her.  I  don't  say  I  like  it.  But 
if  you  will  go  out  of  your  set,  you  might  do  a  great 
deal  worse.  Have  you  written  to  your  uncle  and  to 
your  aunt  ?" 

"  No;  I  don't  know  why,  in  a  matter  wholly  personal 
to  myself,  I  should  call  a  family  council.  You  repre- 
sent the  family  completely,  Penelope." 

"  Yes.  Thanks  to  my  happening  to  be  here.  Well, 
I  wouldn't  write  to  them  if  I  were  you.  It's  no  use  to 
disturb  the  whole  connection  now.  By  the  way,  Imo- 
gene  Cypher  was  at  Newport  after  you  left ;  she  is 
more  beautiful  than  ever — just  lovely;  no  other  girl 
there  had  half  the  attention." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  King,  who  did  not  fancy 
the  drift  their  conversation  was  taking.  "  I  hope  she 
will  make  a  good  match.  Brains  are  not  necessary, 
you  know." 

"  Stanhope,  I  never  said  that — never.  I  might  have 
said  she  wasn't  a  bas  bleu.  No  more  is  she.  But  she 
has  beauty,  and  a  good  temper,  and  money.  It  isn't 
the  cleverest  women  who  make  the  best  wives,  sir." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  objecting  to  her  being  a  wife.  Only 
it  does  not  follow  that,  because  my  uncle  and  aunts  are 
in  love  with  her,  I  should  want  to  marry  her." 

"  I  said  nothing  about  marriage,  my  touchy  friend. 
I  am  not  advising  you  to  be  engaged  to  two  women  at 
the  same  time.  And  I  like  Irene  immensely." 

It  was  evident  that  she  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
the  girl.  They  were  always  together;  it  seemed  to 
happen  so,  and  King  could  hardly  admit  to  himself 
17 


258  Their  Pilgrimage. 

that  Mrs.  Glow  was  de  trop  as  a  third.  Mr.  Bartlett 
Glow  was  very  polite  to  King  and  his  friend,  and  for- 
ever had  one  excuse  and  another  for  taking  them  off 
with  him  —  the  races  or  a  lounge  about  town.  He 
showed  them  one  night,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  inside 
of  the  Temple  of  Chance  and  its  decorous  society,  its 
splendid  buffet,  the  quiet  tables  of  rouge  et  noir,  and 
the  highly  respectable  attendants — aged  men,  white- 
haired,  in  evening  costume,  devout  and  almost  godly 
in  appearance,  with  faces  chastened  to  resignation  and 
patience  with  a  wicked  world,  sedate  and  venerable  as 
the  deacons  in  a  Presbyterian  church.  He  was  lone- 
some and  wanted  company,  and,  besides,  the  women 
liked  to  be  by  themselves  occasionally. 

One  might  be  amused  at  the  Saratoga  show  without 
taking  an  active  part  in  it,  and  indeed  nobody  did  seem 
to  take  a  very  active  part  in  it.  Everybody  was  look- 
ing on.  People  drove,  visited  the  springs — in  a  vain 
expectation  that  excessive  drinking  of  the  medicated 
waters  would  counteract  the  effect  of  excessive  gor- 
mandizing at  the  hotels — sat  about  in  the  endless  rows 
of  arm-chairs  on  the  piazzas,  crowded  the  heavily  up- 
holstered parlors,  promenaded  in  the  corridors,  listened 
to  the  music  in  the  morning,  and  again  in  the  after- 
noon, and  thronged  the  stairways  and  passages,  and 
blocked  up  the  entrance  to  the  ball-rooms.  Balls  ? 
Yes,  with  dress  de  rigueur,  many  beautiful  women  in 
wonderful  toilets,  a  few  debutantes,  a  scarcity  of  young 
men,  and  a  delicious  band — much  better  music  than  at 
the  White  Sulphur. 

And  yet  no  society.  But  a  wonderful  agglomera- 
tion, the  artist  was  saying.  It  is  a  robust  sort  of  place. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  259 

If  Newport  is  the  queen  of  the  watering-places,  this  is 
the  king.  See  how  well  fed  and  fat  the  people  are, 
men  and  women  large  and  expansive,  richly  dressed, 
prosperous-looking  !  What  a  contrast  to  the  family 
sort  of  life  at  the  White  Sulphur !  Here  nobody,  ap- 
parently, cares  for  anybody  else — not  much;  it  is  not 
to  be  expected  that  people  should  know  each  other  in 
such  a  heterogeneous  concern;  you  see  how  compara- 
tively few  greetings  there  are  on  the  piazzas  and  in  the 
parlors.  You  notice,  too,  that  the  types  are  not  so  dis- 
tinctively American  as  at  the  Southern  resort — full 
faces,  thick  necks — more  like  Germans  than  Americans. 
And  then  the  everlasting  white  hats.  And  I  suppose 
it  is  not  certain  that  every  man  in  a  tall  white  hat 
is  a  politician,  or  a  railway  magnate,  or  a  sporting 
man. 

These  big  hotels  are  an  epitome  of  expansive,  gor- 
geous American  life.  At  the  Grand  Union,  King  was 
No.  1710,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  walked  the 
length  of  the  town  to  get  to  his  room  after  ascending 
four  stories.  He  might  as  well,  so  far  as  exercise  was 
concerned,  have  taken  an  apartment  outside.  And  the 
dining-room.  Standing  at  the  door,  he  had  a  vista  of 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  of  small  tables,  sparkling  with  brill- 
iant service  of  glass  and  porcelain,  chandeliers  and 
frescoed  ceiling.  What  perfect  appointments  !  what 
well-trained  waiters! — perhaps  they  were  not  waiters, 
for  he  was  passed  from  one  "  officer  "  to  another  "  offi- 
cer "  down  to  his  place.  At  the  tables  silent  couples 
and  restrained  family  parties,  no  hilarity,  little  talking; 
and  what  a  contrast  this  was  to  the  happy-go-lucky 
service  and  jollity  of  the  White  Sulphur !  Then  the 


260  Their  Pilgrimage. 

interior  parks  of  the  United  States  and  the  Grand 
Union,  with  corridors  and  cottages,  close-clipped  turf, 
banks  of  flowers,  forest  trees,  fountains,  and  at  night, 
when  the  band  filled  all  the  air  with  seductive  strains, 
the  electric  and  the  colored  lights,  gleaming  through 
the  foliage  and  dancing  on  fountains  and  greensward, 
made  a  scene  of  enchantment.  Each  hotel  was  a  vil- 
lage in  itself,  and  the  thousands  of  guests  had  no  more 
in  common  than  the  frequenters  of  New  York  hotels 
and  theatres.  But  what  a  paradise  for  lovers  ! 

"  It  would  be  lonesome  enough  but  for  you,  Irene," 
Stanhope  said,  as  they  sat  one  night  on  the  inner  piazza 
of  the  Grand  Union,  surrendering  themselves  to  all  the 
charms  of  the  scene. 

"  I  love  it  all,"  she  said,  in  the  full  tide  of  her  happi- 
ness. 

On  another  evening  they  were  at  the  illumination 
of  the  Congress  Spring  Park.  The  scene  seemed  the 
creation  of  magic.  By  a  skilful  arrangement  of  the 
colored  globes  an  illusion  of  vastness  was  created,  and 
the  little  enclosure,  with  its  glowing  lights,  was  like 
the  starry  heavens  for  extent.  In  the  mass  of  white 
globes  and  colored  lanterns  of  paper  the  eye  was  de- 
ceived as  to  distances.  The  allees  stretched  away  in- 
terminably, the  pines  seemed  enormous,  and  the  green 
hillsides  mountainous.  Nor  were  charming  single  ef- 
fects wanting.  Down  the  winding  walk  from  the 
hill,  touched  by  a  distant  electric  light,  the  loitering 
people,  in  couples  and  in  groups,  seemed  no  more  in 
real  life  than  the  supernumeraries  in  a  scene  at  the 
opera.  Above,  in  the  illuminated  foliage,  were  doubt- 
less a  castle  and  a  broad  terrace,  with  a  row  of  statues, 


'; .       \«   ,    I 

wilt 


TfTf 


AN  "OFFICER." 


262  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  these  gay  promenaders  were  ladies  and  cavaliers 
in  an  old-time  masquerade.  The  gilded  kiosk  on  the 
island  in  the  centre  of  the  miniature  lake  and  the  fairy 
bridge  that  leads  to  it  were  outlined  by  colored  globes ; 
and  the  lake,  itself  set  about  with  brilliants,  reflected 
kiosk  and  bridge  and  lights,  repeating  a  hundredfold 
the  fantastic  scene,  while  from  their  island  retreat  the 
band  sent  out  through  the  illumined  night  strains  of 
sentiment  and  gayety  and  sadness.  In  the  intervals  of 
the  music  there  was  silence,  as  if  the  great  throng  were 
too  deeply  enjoying  this  feast  of  the  senses  to  speak. 
Perhaps  a  foreigner  would  have  been  impressed  with 
the  decorous  respectability  of  the  assembly;  he  would 
have  remarked  that  there  were  no  little  tables  scattered 
about  the  ground,  no  boys  running  about  with  foam- 
ing mugs  of  beer,  no  noise,  no  loud  talking;  and  how 
restful  to  all  the  senses! 

Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  had  the  whim  to  devote  herself 
to  Mrs.  Benson,  and  was  repaid  by  the  acquisition  of 
a  great  deal  of  information  concerning  the  social  and 
domestic  life  in  Cyrusville,  Ohio,  and  the  maternal 
ambition  for  Irene.  Stanhope  and  Irene  sat  a  little 
apart  from  the  others,  and  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
witchery  of  the  hour.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  repro- 
duce in  type  all  that  they  said;  and  what  was  most 
important  to  them,  and  would  be  most  interesting  to 
the  reader,  are  the  things  they  did  not  say — the  half 
exclamations,  the  delightful  silences,  the  tones,  the 
looks,  that  are  the  sign  language  of  lovers.  It  was 
Irene  who  first  broke  the  spell  of  this  delightful  mode 
of  communication,  and  in  a  pause  of  the  music  said, 
"  Your  cousin  has  been  telling  me  of  your  relatives  in 


Their  Pilgrimage.  263 

New  York,  and  she  told  me  more  of  yourself  than  you 
ever  did." 

"Very  likely.  Trust  your  friends  for  that.  I  hope 
she  gave  me  a  good  character." 

"Oh,  she  has  the  greatest  admiration  for  you,  and 
she  said  the  family  have  the  highest  expectations  of 
your  career.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  the 
child  of  such  hopes  ?  It  half  frightened  me." 

"  It  must  be  appalling.  What  did  she  say  of  my 
uncle  and  aunts  ?" 

"Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you,  except  that  she  raised  an 
image  in  my  mind  of  an  awful  vision  of  ancient  fam- 
ily and  exclusiveness,  the  most  fastidious,  delight- 
ful, conventional  people,  she  said,  very  old  family, 
looked  down  upon  Washington  Irving,  don't  you  know, 
because  he  wrote.  I  suppose  she  wanted  to  impress  me 
with  the  value  of  the  prize  I've  drawn,  dear.  But  I 
should  like  you  just  as  well  if  your  connections  had 
not  looked  down  on  Irving.  Are  they  so  very  high 
and  mighty?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  Much  like  other  people.  My  aunts 
are  the  dearest  old  ladies,  just  a  little  near-sighted, 
you  know,  about  seeing  people  that  are  not — well,  of 
course,  they  live  in  a  rather  small  world.  My  uncle 
is  a  bachelor,  rather  particular,  not  what  you  would 
call  a  genial  old  man;  been  abroad  a  good  deal,  and 
moved  mostly  in  our  set;  sometimes  I  think  he  cares 
more  for  his  descent  than  for  his  position  at  the  bar, 
which  is  a  very  respectable  one,  by  the  way.  You 
know  what  an  old  bachelor  is  who  never  has  had  any- 
body to  shake  him  out  of  his  contemplation  of  his 
family  ?" 


264  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Irene,  a  little  anxiously,  let- 
ting her  hand  rest  a  moment  upon  Stanhope's,  "  that 
they  will  like  poor  little  me?  I  believe  I  am  more 
afraid  of  the  aunts  than  of  the  uncle.  I  don't  believe 
they  will  be  as  nice  as  your  cousin." 

"Of  course  they  will  like  you.  Everybody  likes 
you.  The  aunts  are  just  a  little  old-fashioned,  that  is 
all.  Habit  has  made  them  draw  a  social  circle  with  a 
Ismail  radius.  Some  have  one  kind  of  circle,  some 
another.  Of  course  iny  aunts  are  sorry  for  any  one 
who  is  not  descended  from  the  Van  Schlovenhovens — 
the  old  Van  Schlovenhoven  had  the  first  brewery  of 
the  colony  in  the  time  of  Peter  Stuyvesant.  In  New 
York  it's  a  family  matter,  in  Philadelphia  it's  geo- 
graphical. There  it's  a  question  whether  you  live 
within  the  lines  of  Chestnut  Street  and  Spruce  Street 
— outside  of  these  in  the  city  yon  are  socially  impos- 
sible. Mrs.  Cortlandt  told  me  that  two  Philadelphia 
ladies  who  had  become  great  friends  at  a  summer 
resort — one  lived  within  and  the  other  without  the 
charmed  lines — went  back  to  town  together  in  the 
autumn.  At  the  station  when  they  parted,  the  *  in- 
side '  lady  said  to  the  other:  '  Good-bye.  It  has  been 
such  a  pleasure  to  know  you!  I  suppose  I  shall  see 
you  sometimes  at  Moneymaker's  !'  Moneymaker's  is 
the  Eon  Marche  of  Philadelphia." 

The  music  ceased;  the  band  were  hurrying  away; 
the  people  all  over  the  grounds  were  rising  to  go,  lin- 
gering a  little,  reluctant  to  leave  the  enchanting  scene. 
Irene  wished,  with  a  sigh,  that  it  might  never  end; 
unreal  as  it  was,  it  was  more  native  to  her  spirit  than 
that  future  which  her  talk  with  Stanhope  had  opened 


Their  Pilgrimage.  265 

to  her  contemplation.  An  ill-defined  apprehension 
possessed  her  in  spite  of  the  reassuring  presence  of 
her  lover  and  her  perfect  confidence  in  the  sincerity 
of  his  passion;  and  this  feeling  was  somehow  increased 
by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Glow  with  her  mother;  she 
could  not  shake  off  the  uneasy  suggestion  of  the  con- 
trast. 

At  the  hour  when  the  ladies  went  to  their  rooms  the 
day  was  just  beginning  for  a  certain  class  of  the  habi- 
tues. The  parlors  were  nearly  deserted,  and  few 
chairs  were  occupied  on  the  piazzas,  but  the  ghosts  of 
another  generation  seemed  to  linger,  especially  in  the 
offices  and  bar-room.  Flitting  about  were  to  be  seen 
the  social  heroes  who  had  a  notoriety  thirty  and  forty 
years  ago  in  the  newspapers.  This  dried-up  old  man 
in  a  bronze  wig,  scuffling  along  in  list  slippers,  was 
a  famous  criminal  lawyer  in  his  day;  this  gentleman, 
who  still  wears  an  air  of  gallantry,  and  is  addressed  as 
General,  had  once  a  reputation  for  successes  in  the 
drawing-room  as  well  as  on  the  field  of  Mars;  here  is 
a  genuine  old  beau,  with  the  unmistakable  self-con- 
sciousness of  one  who  has  been  a  favorite  of  the  sex, 
but  who  has  slowly  decayed  in  the  midst  of  his  cos- 
metics; here  saunter  along  a  couple  of  actors  with  the 
air  of  being  on  the  stage.  These  people  all  have  the 
"  nightcap "  habit,  and  drift  along  towards  the  bar- 
room— the  last  brilliant  scene  in  the  drama  of  the  idle 
day,  the  necessary  portal  to  the  realm  of  silence  and 
sleep. 

This  is  a  large  apartment,  brightly  lighted,  with  a 
bar  extending  across  one  end  of  it.  Modern  taste  is 
conspicuous  here,  nothing  is  gaudy,  colors  are  subdued, 


266  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  its  decorations  are  simple — even  the  bar  itself  is 
refined,  substantial,  decorous,  wanting  entirely  the 
meretricious  glitter  and  barbarous  ornamentation  of 
the  old  structures  of  this  sort,  and  the  attendants  have 
wholly  laid  aside  the  smart  antics  of  the  former  bar- 
tender, and  the  customers  are  swiftly  and  silently 
served  by  the  deferential  waiters.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  striking  changes  that  King  noticed  in  American 
life. 

There  is  a  certain  sort  of  life — whether  it  is  worth 
seeing  is  a  question — that  we  can  see  nowhere  else,  and 
for  an  hour  Mr.  Glow  and  King  and  Forbes,  sipping 
their  raspberry  shrub  in  a  retired  corner  of  the  bar- 
room,were  interested  spectators  of  the  scene.  Through 
the  padded  swinging  doors  entered,  as  in  a  play,  char- 
acter after  character.  Each  actor  as  he  entered  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  stared  about  him,  and  in  this  act  re- 
vealed his  character — his  conceit,  his  slyness,  his  bra- 
vado, his  self-importance.  There  was  great  variety, 
but  practically  one  prevailing  type,  and  that  the  Xew 
York  politician.  Most  of  them  were  from  the  city, 
though  the  country  politician  apes  the  city  politician 
as  much  as  possible,  but  he  lacks  the  exact  air,  not- 
withstanding the  black  broadcloth  and  the  white  hat. 
The  city  men  are  of  two  varieties — the  smart,  perky- 
nosed,  vulgar  young  ward  worker,  and  the  heavy- 
featured,  gross,  fat  old  fellow.  One  after  another  they 
glide  in,  with  an  always  conscious  air,  swagger  off  to 
the  bar,  strike  attitudes  in  groups,  one  with  his  legs 
spread,  another  with  a  foot  behind  on  tiptoe,  another 
leaning  against  the  counter,  and  so  pose,  and  drink — 
"  My  respects  " — all  rather  solemn  and  stiff,  impressed 


Their  Pilgrimage.  267 

perhaps  by  the  decorousness  of  the  place,  and  conscious 
of  their  good  clothes.  Enter  together  three  stout  men, 
a  yard  across  the  shoulders,  each  with  an  enormous 
development  in  front,  waddle  up  to  the  bar,  attempt 
to  form  a  triangular  group  for  conversation,  but  find 
themselves  too  far  apart  to  talk  in  that  position,  and 
so  arrange  themselves  side  by  side — a  most  distin- 
guished-looking party,  like  a  portion  of  a  swell-front 
street  in  Boston.  To  them  swaggers  up  a  young  sport, 
like  one  of  Thackeray's  figures  in  the  "  Irish  Sketch- 
Book  " — short,  in  a  white  hat,  poor  face,  impudent  man- 
ner, poses  before  the  swell  fronts,  and  tosses  off  his 
glass.  About  a  little  table  in  one  corner  are  three  ex- 
cessively "ugly  mugs,"  leering  at  each  other  and  pour- 
ing down  champagne.  These  men  are  all  dressed  as 
nearly  like  gentlemen  as  the  tailor  can  make  them, 
but  even  he  cannot  change  their  hard,  brutal  faces.  It 
is  not  their  fault  that  money  and  clothes  do  not  make 
a  gentleman;  they  are  well  fed  and  vulgarly  prosper- 
ous, and  if  you  inquire  you  will  find  that  their  women 
are  in  silks  and  laces.  This  is  a  good  place  to  study  the 
rulers  of  New  York ;  and  impressive  as  they  are  in  ap- 
pearance, it  is  a  relief  to  notice  that  they  unbend  to 
each  other,  and  hail  one  another  familiarly  as  "Billy  " 
and  "  Tommy."  Do  they  not  ape  what  is  most  pros- 
perous and  successful  in  American  life  ?  There  is  one 
who  in  make-up,  form,  and  air,  even  to  the  cut  of  his 
side-whiskers,  is  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  great  rail- 
way king.  Here  is  a  heavy-faced  young  fellow  in 
evening  dress,  perhaps  endeavoring  to  act  the  part  of 
a  gentleman,  who  has  come  from  an  evening  party  un- 
fortunately a  little  "  slewed,"  but  who  does  not  know 


268  Their  Pilgrimage. 

how  to  sustain  the  character,  for  presently  he  becomes 
very  familiar  and  confidential  with  the  dignified  col- 
ored waiter  at  the  buffet,  who  requires  all  his  native 
politeness  to  maintain  the  character  of  a  gentleman  for 
two. 

If  these  men  had  millions,  could  they  get  any  more 
enjoyment  out  of  life?  To  have  fine  clothes,  drink 
champagne,  and  pose  in  a  fashionable  bar-room  in  the 
height  of  the  season — is  not  this  the  apotheosis  of  the 
"  heeler  "  and  the  ward  "  worker  ?"  The  scene  had  a 
fascination  for  the  artist,  who  declared  that  he  never 
tired  watching  the  evolutions  of  the  foreign  element 
into  the  full  bloom  of  American  citizenship. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE  intimacy  between  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  and  Irene 
increased  as  the  days  went  by.  The  woman  of  society 
was  always  devising  plans  for  Irene's  entertainment, 
and  winning  her  confidence  by  a  thousand  evidences 
of  interest  and  affection.  Pleased  as  King  was  with 
this  at  first,  he  began  to  be  annoyed  at  a  devotion  to 
which  he  could  have  no  objection  except  that  it  often 
came  between  him  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  girl's  so- 
ciety alone;  and  latterly  he  had  noticed  that  her  man- 
ner was  more  grave  when  they  were  together,  and  that 
a  little  something  of  reserve  mingled  with  her  ten- 
derness. 

They  made  an  excursion  one  day  to  Lake  George — 
a  poetical  pilgrimage  that  recalled  to  some  of  the  party 
(which  included  some  New  Orleans  friends)  the  ro- 
mance of  early  days.  To  the  Bensons  and  the  artist 
it  was  all  new,  and  to  King  it  was  seen  for  the  first 
time  in  the  transforming  atmosphere  of  love.  To  men 
of  sentiment  its  beauties  will  never  be  exhausted ;  but 
to  the  elderly  and  perhaps  rheumatic  tourist  the 
draughty  steamboats  do  not  always  bring  back  the 
remembered  delight  of  youth.  There  is  no  pleasanter 
place  in  the  North  for  a  summer  residence,  but  there 
is  a  certain  element  of  monotony  and  weariness  insepa- 
rable from  an  excursion:  travellers  have  been  known 
to  yawn  even  on  the  Rhine.  It  was  a  gray  day,  the 


ON  THE  BOAT,  LAKE  GEORGE- 

country  began  to  show  the  approach  of  autumn,  and 
the  view  from  the  landing  at  Caldwell's,  the  head  of 
the  lake,  was  never  more  pleasing.  In  the  marshes 
the  cat-tails  and  the  faint  flush  of  color  on  the  alders 
and  soft  maples  gave  a  character  to  the  low  shore^  and 
the  gentle  rise  of  the  hills  from  the  water's  edge  com- 
bined to  make  a  sweet  and  peaceful  landscape. 

The  tourists  find  the  steamer  waiting  for  them  at 
the  end  of  the  rail,  and  if  they  are  indifferent  to  the 
war  romances  of  the  place,  as  most  of  them  are,  they 


Their  Pilgrimage.  271 

hurry  on  without  a  glance  at  the  sites  of  the  famous 
old  forts  St.  George  and  William  Henry.  Yet  the 
head  of  the  lake  might  well  detain  them  a  few  hours 
though  they  do  not  care  for  the  scalping  Indians  and 
their  sometime  allies  the  French  or  the  English.  On 
the  east  side  the  lake  is  wooded  to  the  shore,  and  the 
jutting  points  and  charming  bays  make  a  pleasant  out- 
line to  the  eye.  Crosby  side  is  the  ideal  of  a  summer 
retreat,  nestled  in  foliage  on  a  pretty  point,  with  its 
great  trees  on  a  sloping  lawn,  boathouses  and  innu- 
merable row  and  sail  boats,  and  a  lovely  view,  over  the 
blue  waters,  of  a  fine  range  of  hills.  Caldwell  itself, 
on  the  west  side,  is  a  pretty  tree-planted  village  in  a 
break  in  the  hills,  and  a  point  above  it.  shaded  with 
great  pines  is  a  favorite  rendezvous  for  pleasure  parties, 
who  leave  the  ground  strewn  with  egg-shells  and  news- 
papers. The  Fort  William  Henry  Hotel  was  formerly 
the  chief  resort  on  the  lake.  It  is  a  long,  handsome 
structure,  with  broad  piazzas,  and  low  evergreens  and 
flowers  planted  in  front.  The  view  from  it,  under  the 
great  pines,  of  the  lake  and  the  northern  purple  hills, 
is  lovely.  But  the  tide  of  travel  passes  it  by,  and  the 
few  people  who  were  there  seemed  lonesome.  It  is 
always  so.  Fashion  demands  novelty;  one  class  of 
summer  boarders  and  tourists  drives  out  another,  and 
the  people  who  want  to  be  sentimental  at  this  end  of 
the  lake  now  pass  it  with  a  call,  perhaps  a  sigh  for 
the  past,  and  go  on  to  fresh  pastures  where  their  own 
society  is  encamped. 

Lake  George  has  changed  very  much  -within  ten 
years;  hotels  and  great  boarding-houses  line  the  shores; 
but  the  marked  difference  is  in  the  increase  of  cottage 


272  Their  Pilgrimage. 

life.  As  our  tourists  sailed  down  the  lake  they  were  sur- 
prised by  the  number  of  pretty  villas  with  red  roofs 
peeping  out  from  the  trees,  and  the  occupation  of  ev- 
ery island  and  headland  by  gay  and  often  fantastic 
summer  residences.  King  had  heard  this  lake  com- 
pared with  Como  and  Maggiore,  and  as  a  patriot  he 
endeavored  to  think  that  its  wild  and  sylvan  loveliness 
was  more  pleasing  than  the  romantic  beauty  of  the 
Italian  lakes.  But  the  effort  failed.  In  this  climate 
it  is  impossible  that  Horicon  should  ever  be  like  Como. 
Pretty  hills  and  forests  and  temporary  summer  struct- 
ures cannot  have  the  poetic  or  the  substantial  interest 
of  the  ancient  villages  and  towns  clinging  to  the  hills, 
the  old  stone  houses,  the  vines,  the  ruins,  the  atmos- 
phere of  a  long  civilization.  They  do  the  lovely  Hori- 
con no  service  who  provoke  such  comparisons. 

The  lake  has  a  character  of  its  own.  As  the  trav- 
eller sails  north  and  approaches  the  middle  of  the  lake, 
the  gems  of  green  islands  multiply,  the  mountains  rise 
higher,  and  shouldering  up  in  the  sky  seem  to  bar  a 
further  advance;  towards  sunset  the  hills,  which  are 
stately  but  lovely,  a  silent  assembly  of  round  and  sharp 
peaks,  with  long,  graceful  slopes,  take  on  exquisite 
colors,  violet,  bronze,  and  green,  and  now  and  again  a 
bold  rocky  bluff  shines  like  a  ruby  in  the  ruddy  light. 
Just  at  dusk  the  steamer  landed  midway  in  the  lake 
at  Green  Island,  where  the  scenery  is  the  boldest  and 
most  romantic;  from  the  landing  a  park-like  lawn, 
planted  with  big  trees,  slopes  up  to  a  picturesque  hotel. 
Lights  twinkled  from  many  a  cottage  window  and 
from  boats  in  the  bay,  and  strains  of  music  saluted 
the  travellers.  It  was  an  enchanting  scene. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  273 

The  genius  of  Philadelphia  again  claims  the  grati- 
tude of  the  tourist,  for  the  Sagamore  Hotel  is  one  of 
the  most  delightful  hostelries  in  the  world.  A  pecul- 
iar, interesting  building,  rambling  up  the  slope  on  dif- 
ferent levels,  so  contrived  that  all  the  rooms  are  out- 
side, and  having  a  delightful  irregularity,  as  if  the 
house  had  been  a  growth.  Naturally  a  hotel  so  dainty 
in  its  service  and  furniture,  and  so  refined,  was  crowded 
to  its  utmost  capacity.  The  artist  could  find  nothing 
to  complain  of  in  the  morning  except  that  the  incan- 
descent electric  light  in  his  chamber  went  out  suddenly 
at  midnight  and  left  him  in  blank  darkness  in  the  most 
exciting  crisis  of  a  novel.  Green  Island  is  perhaps  a 
mile  long.  A  bridge  connects  it  with  the  mainland, 
and  besides  the  hotel  it  has  a  couple  of  picturesque 
stone  and  timber  cottages.  At  the  north  end  are  the 
remains  of  the  English  intrenchments  of  1755 — signs 
of  war  and  hate  which  kindly  nature  has  almost  ob- 
literated with  sturdy  trees.  With  the  natural  beauty 
of  the  island  art  has  little  interfered;  near  the  hotel 
is  the  most  stately  grove  of  white  birches  anywhere 
to  be  seen,  and  their  silvery  sheen,  with  occasional 
patches  of  sedge,  and  the  tender  sort  of  foliage  that 
Corot  liked  to  paint,  gives  an  exceptional  refinement 
to  the  landscape.  One  needs,  indeed,  to  be  toned  up 
by  the  glimpses,  under  the  trees,  over  the  blue  water, 
of  the  wooded  craggy  hills,  with  their  shelf-like  ledges, 
which  are  full  of  strength  and  character.  The  charm 
of  the  place  is  due  to  this  combination  of  loveliness 
and  granitic  strength. 

Irene  long  remembered  the  sail  of  that  morning, 
seated  in  the  bow  of  the  steamer  with  King,  through 
18 


274  Their  Pilgrimage. 

scenes  of  ever-changing  beauty,  as  the  boat  wound 
about  the  headlands  and  made  its,  calls,  now  on  one 
side  and  now  on  the  other,  at  the  pretty  landings  and 
decorated  hotels.  On  every  hand  was  the  gayety  of 
summer  life — a  striped  tent  on  a  rocky  point  with  a 
platform  erected  for  dancing,  a  miniature  bark  hut  on 
an  island,  and  a  rustic  arched  bridge  to  the  mainland, 
gaudy  little  hotels  with  winding  paths  along  the  shore, 
and  at  all  the  landings  groups  of  pretty  girls  and  col- 
lege lads  in  boating  costume.  It  was  wonderful  how 
much  these  holiday-makers  were  willing  to  do  for  the 
entertainment  of  the  passing  travellers.  A  favorite 
pastime  in  this  peaceful  region  was  the  broom  drill, 
and  its  execution  gave  an  operatic  character  to  the 
voyage.  When  the  steamer  approaches,  a  band  of 
young  ladies  in  military  ranks,  clad  in  light  marching 
costume,  each  with  a  broom  in  place  of  a  musket,  de- 
scend to  the  landing  and  delight  the  spectators  with 
their  warlike  manoeuvres.  The  march  in  the  broom 
drill  is  two  steps  forward  and  one  step  back,  a  mode 
of  progression  that  conveys  the  notion  of  a  pleasing 
indecision  of  purpose,  which  is  foreign  to  the  charac- 
ter of  these  handsome  Amazons,  who  are  quite  able  to 
hold  the  wharf  against  all  comers.  This  act  of  war  in 
fancy  dress,  with  its  two  steps  forward  and  one  back, 
and  the  singing  of  a  song,  is  one  of  the  most  fatal  to 
the  masculine  peace  of  mind  in  the  whole  history  of 
carnage. 

Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow,  to  be  sure,  thought  it  would  be 
out  of  place  at  the  Casino;  but  even  she  had  to  admit 
that  the  American  girl  who  would  bewitch  the  for- 
eigner with  her  one,  two,  and  one,  and  her  flourish  of 


276  Their  Pilgrimage. 

broom  on  Lake  George,  was  capable  of  freezing  bis 
ardor  by  her  cool  good-breeding  at  Newport. 

There  was  not  much  more  to  be  done  at  Saratoga. 
Mrs.  Benson  had  tried  every  spring  in  the  valley,  and 
thus  anticipated  a  remedy,  as  Mr.  Benson  said,  for  any 
possible  "  complaint "  that  might  visit  her  in  the  future. 
Mr.  Benson  himself  said  that  he  thought  it  was  time 
for  him  to  move  to  a  new  piazza,  as  he  had  worn  out 
half  the  chairs  at  the  Grand  Union.  The  Bartlett- 
Glows  were  already  due  at  Richfield;  in  fact,  Penel- 
ope was  impatient  to  go,  now  that  she  had  persuaded 
the  Bensons  to  accompany  her ;  and  the  artist,  who 
had  been  for  some  time  grumbling  that  there  was 
nothing  left  in  Saratoga  to  draw  except  corks,  re- 
minded King  of  his  agreement  at  Bar  Harbor,  and  the 
necessity  he  felt  for  rural  retirement  after  having 
been  dragged  all  over  the  continent. 

On  the  last  day  Mr.  Glow  took  King  and  Forbes  off 
to  the  races,  and  Penelope  and  the  Bensons  drove  to 
the  Lake.  King  never  could  tell  why  he  consented  to 
this  arrangement,  but  he  knew  in  a  vague  way  that  it 
is  useless  to  attempt  to  resist  feminine  power,  that 
shapes  our  destiny  in  spite  of  all  our  roughhewing  of 
its  outlines.  He  had  become  very  uneasy  at  the  friend- 
ship between  Irene  and  Penelope,  but  he  could  give 
no  reason  for  his  suspicion,  for  it  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  his  cousin  to  be  interested  in 
the  girl  who  was  about  to  come  into  the  family.  It 
seemed  also  natural  that  Penelope  should  be  attracted 
by  her  nobility  of  nature.  He  did  not  know  till  after- 
wards that  it  was  this  very  nobility  and  unselfishness 
which  Penelope  saw  could  be  turned  to  account  for 


Their  Pilgrimage.  277 

her  own  purposes.  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  herself  would 
have  said  that  she  was  very  much  attached  to  Irene, 
and  this  would  have  been  true;  she  would  have  said 
also  that  she  pitied  her,  and  this  would  have  been  true; 
but  she  was  a  woman  whose  world  was  bounded  by 
her  own  social  order,  and  she  had  no  doubt  in  her  own 
mind  that  she  was  loyal  to  the  best  prospects  of  her 
cousin,  and,  what  was  of  more  importance,  that  she 
was  protecting  her  little  world  from  a  mesalliance 
when  she  preferred  Imogene  Cypher  to  Irene  Benson. 
In  fact,  the  Bensons  in  her  set  were  simply  an  unthink- 
able element.  It  disturbed  the  established  order  of 
things.  If  any  one  thinks  meanly  of  Penelope  for 
counting  upon  the  heroism  of  Irene  to  effect  her  un- 
happiness,  let  him  reflect  of  how  little  consequence  is 
the  temporary  happiness  of  one  or  two  individuals 
compared  with  the  peace  and  comfort  of  a  whole  so- 
cial order.  And  she  might  also  well  make  herself  be- 
lieve that  she  was  consulting  the  best  interests  of 
Irene  in  keeping  her  out  of  a  position  where  she  might 
be  subject  to  so  many  humiliations.  She  was  capable 
of  crying  over  the  social  adventures  of  the  heroine  of 
a  love  story,  and  taking  sides  with  her  against  the 
world,  but  as  to  the  actual  world  itself,  her  practical 
philosophy  taught  her  that  it  was  much  better  always, 
even  at  the  cost  of  a  little  heartache  in  youth,  to  go 
with  the  stream  than  against  it. 

The  Lake  at  Saratoga  is  the  most  picturesque  feat- 
ure of  the  region,  and  would  alone  make  the  fortune 
of  any  other  watering-place.  It  is  always  a  surprise 
to  the  stranger,  who  has  bowled  along  the  broad  drive 
of  five  miles  through  a  pleasing  but  not  striking  land- 
18* 


278  Their  Pilgrimage. 

scape,  to  come  suddenly,  when  he  alights  at  the  hotel, 
upon  what  seems  to  be  a  "  fault,"  a  sunken  valley,  and 
to  look  down  a  precipitous,  grassy,  tree-planted  slope 
upon  a  lake  sparkling  at  the  bottom  and  reflecting  the 
enclosing  steep  shores.  It  is  like  an  aqua-marine  gem 
countersunk  in  the  green  landscape.  Many  an  hour 
had  Irene  and  Stanhope  passed  in  dreamy  contempla- 
tion of  it.  They  had  sailed  down  the  lake  in  the  little 
steamer,  they  had  whimsically  speculated  about  this 
and  that  couple  who  took  their  ices  or  juleps  under 
the  trees  or  on  the  piazza  of  the  hotel,  and  the  spot 
had  for  them  a  thousand  tender  associations.  It  was 
here  that  Stanhope  had  told  her  very  fully  the  un- 
eventful story  of  his  life,  and  it  was  here  that  she  had 
grown  into  full  sympathy  with  his  aspirations  for  the 
future. 

It  was  of  all  this  that  Irene  thought  as  she  sat  talk- 
ing that  day  with  Penelope  on  a  bench  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  by  the  steamboat  landing.  It  was  this  very 
future  that  the  woman  of  the  world  was  using  to  raise 
in  the  mind  of  Irene  a  morbid  sense  of  her  duty.  Skil- 
fully with  this  was  insinuated  the  notion  of  the  false 
and  contemptible  social  pride  and  exclusiveness  of 
Stanhope's  relations,  which  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  repre- 
sented as  implacable  while  she  condemned  it  as  absurd. 
There  was  not  a  word  of  opposition  to  the  .union  of 
Irene  and  Stanhope :  Penelope  was  not  such  a  bungler 
as  to  make  that  mistake.  It  was  not  her  cue  to  defi- 
nitely suggest  a  sacrifice  for  the  welfare  of  her  cousin. 
If  she  let  Irene  perceive  that  she  admired  the  courage 
in  her  that  could  face  all  these  adverse  social  condi- 
tions that  were  conjured  up  before  her,  Irene  could 


Their  Pilgrimage.  279 

never  say  that  Penelope  had  expressed  anything  of  the 
sort.  Her  manner  was  affectionate,  almost  caressing; 
she  declared  that  she  felt  a  sisterly  interest  in  her. 
This  was  genuine  enough.  I  am  not  sure  that  Mrs. 
Bartlett  Glow  did  not  sometimes  waver  in  her  purpose 
when  she  was  in  the  immediate  influence  of  the  girl's 
genuine  charm,  and  felt  how  sincere  she  was.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  wish  to  herself  that  Irene  had 
been  born  in  her  own  world. 

It  was  not  at  all  unnatural  that  Irene  should  have 
been  charmed  by  Penelope,  and  that  the  latter  should 
gradually  have  established  an  influence  over  her.  She 
was  certainly  kind-hearted,  amiable,  bright,  engaging. 
I  think  all  those  who  have  known  her  at  Newport,  or 
in  her  New  York  home,  regard  her  as  one  of  the  most 
charming  women  in  the  world.  Nor  is  she  artificial, 
except  as  society  requires  her  to  be,  and  if  she  regards 
the  conventions  of  her  own  set  as  the  most  important 
things  in  life,  therein  she  does  not  differ  from  hosts 
of  excellent  wives  and  mothers.  Irene,  being  utterly 
candid  herself,  never  suspected  that  Penelope  had  at 
all  exaggerated  the  family  and  social  obstacles,  nor 
did  it  occur  to  her  to  doubt  Penelope's  affection  for 
her.  But  she  was  not  blind.  Being  a  woman,  she 
comprehended  perfectly  the  indirection  of  a  woman's 
approaches,  and  knew  well  enough  by  this  time  that 
Penelope,  whatever  her  personal  leanings,  must  feel 
with  her  family  in  regard  to  this  engagement.  And 
that  she,  who  was  apparently  her  friend,  and  who  had 
Stanhope's  welfare  so  much  at  heart,  did  so  feel  was 
an  added  reason  why  Irene  was  drifting  towards  a  pur- 
pose of  self-sacrifice.  When  she  was  with  Stanhope 


280  Their  Pilgrimage. 

such  a  sacrifice  seemed  as  impossible  as  it  would  be 
cruel,  but  when  she  was  with  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow,  or 
alone  the  subject  took  another  aspect.  There  is  noth- 
ing more  attractive  to  a  noble  woman  of  tender  heart 
than  a  duty  the  performance  of  which  will  make  her 
suffer.  A  false  notion  of  duty  has  to  account  for 
much  of  the  misery  in  life. 

It  was  under  this  impression  that  Irene  passed  the 
last  evening  at  Saratoga  with  Stanhope  on  the  piazza 
of  the  hotel — an  evening  that  the  latter  long  remem- 
bered as  giving  him  the  sweetest  and  the  most  con- 
tradictory and  perplexing  glimpses  of  a  woman's 
heart. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

AFTER  weeks  of  the  din  of  Strauss  and  Gungl,  the 
soothing  strains  of  the  Pastoral  Symphony.  Now  no 
more  the  kettle-drum  and  the  ceaseless  promenade  in 
showy  corridors,  but  the  oaten  pipe  under  the  spread- 
ing maples,  the  sheep  feeding  on  the  gentle  hills  of 
Otsego,  the  carnival  of  the  hop-pickers.  It  is  time  to 
be  rural,  to  adore  the  country,  to  speak  about  the  dew 
on  the  upland  pasture,  and  the  exquisite  view  from  Sun- 
set Hill.  It  is  quite  English,  is  it  not?  this  passion 
for  quiet,  refined  country  life,  which  attacks  all  the 
summer  revellers  at  certain  periods  in  the  season,  and 
sends  them  in  troops  to  Richfield  or  Lenox  or  some 
other  peaceful  retreat,  with  their  simple  apparel  be- 
stowed in  modest  four-story  trunks.  Come,  gentle 
shepherdesses,  come,  sweet  youths  in  white  flannel,  let 
us  tread  a  measure  on  the  greensward,  let  us  wander 
down  the  lane,  let  us  pass  under  the  festoons  of  the 
hop -vines,  let  us  saunter  in  the  paths  of  sentiment, 
that  lead  to  love  in  a  cottage  and  a  house  in  town. 

Every  watering-place  has  a  character  of  its  own,  and 
those  who  have  given  little  thought  to  this  are  sur- 
prised at  the  endless  variety  in  the  American  resorts. 
But  what  is  even  more  surprising  is  the  influence  that 
these  places  have  upon  the  people  that  frequent  them, 
who  appear  to  change  their  characters  with  their  sur- 
roundings. One  woman  in  her  season  plays  many 


"THE  OATEN  PIPE  UNDER  THE  SPREADING  MAPLES." 

parts,  dashing  in  one  place,  reserved  in  another,  now 
gay  and  active,  now  listless  and  sentimental,  not  at  all 
the  same  woman  at  Newport  that  she  is  in  the  Adiron- 
dack camps,  one  thing  at  Bar  Harbor  and  quite  another 
at  Saratoga  or  at  Richfield.  Different  tastes,  to  be 
sure,  are  suited  at  different  resorts,  but  fashion  sends 
a  steady  procession  of  the  same  people  on  the  round 
of  all. 


f    m   fy$m 
m$m>:    '€ 

iy'Nt/jv  ^vwi.tf{/i^;\/////^  ^  //>  ^^x  (m? 


"  LET  US  PASS  UNDER  THE  FESTOONS  OF  THE  HOP-VINES. " 


284:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

The  charm  of  Richfield  Springs  is  in  the  character 
of  the  landscape.  It  is  a  limestone  region  of  gentle 
slopes  and  fine  lines;  and  although  it  is  elevated,  the 
general  character  is  refined  rather  than  bold,  the  fer- 
tile valleys  in  pleasing  irregularity  falling  away  from 
rounded  wooded  hills  in  a  manner  to  produce  the  im- 
pression of  peace  and  repose.  The  lay  of  the  land  is 
such  that  an  elevation  of  a  few  hundred  feet  gives  a 
most  extensive  prospect,  a  view  of  meadows  and  up- 
land pastures,  of  lakes  and  ponds,  of  forests  hanging  in 
dark  masses  on  the  limestone  summits,  of  fields  of 
wheat  and  hops,  and  of  distant  mountain  ranges.  It 
is  scenery  that  one  grows  to  love,  and  that  responds  to 
one's  every  mood  in  variety  and  beauty.  In  a  whole 
summer  the  pedestrian  will  not  exhaust  the  inspiring 
views,  and  the  drives  through  the  gracious  land,  over 
hills,  round  the  lakes,  by  woods  and  farms,  increase  in 
interest  as  one  knows  them  better.  The  habitues  of 
the  place,  year  after  year,  are  at  a  loss  for  words  to 
convey  their  peaceful  satisfaction. 

In  this  smiling  country  lies  the  pretty  village  of 
Richfield,  the  rural  character  of  which  is  not  entirely 
lost  by  reason  of  the  hotels,  cottages,  and  boarding- 
houses  which  line  the  broad  principal  street.  The 
centre  of  the  town  is  the  old  Spring  House  and  grounds. 
When  our  travellers  alighted  in  the  evening  at  this 
mansion,  they  were  reminded  of  an  English  inn,  though 
it  is  not  at  all  like  an  inn  in  England  except  in  its  at- 
mosphere of  comfort.  The  building  has  rather  a  co- 
lonial character,  with  its  long  corridors  and  pillared 
piazzas;  built  at  different  times,  and  without  any  par- 
ticular plans  except  to  remain  old-fashioned,  it  is  now 


Their  Pilgrimage.  285 

a  big,  rambling  white  mass  of  buildings  in  the  midst  of 
maple-trees,  with  so  many  stairs  and  passages  on  dif- 
ferent levels,  and  so  many  nooks  and  corners,  that  the 
stranger  is  always  getting  lost  in  it — turning  up  in  the 
luxurious  smoking-room  when  he  wants  to  dine,  and 
opening  a  door  that  lets  him  out  into  the  park  when 
he  is  trying  to  go  to  bed.  But  there  are  few  hotels  in 
the  country  where  the  guests  are  so  well  taken  care  of 
This  was  the  unbought  testimony  of  Miss  Lamont, 
who,  with  her  uncle,  had  been  there  long  enough  to  ac- 
quire the  common  anxiety  of  sojourners  that  the  new- 
comers should  be  pleased,  and  who  superfluously  ex- 
plained the  attractions  of  the  place  to  the  artist,  as  if 
in  his  eyes,  that  rested  on  her,  more  than  one  attrac- 
tion was  needed.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  see  the  good 
comradeship  that  existed  between  these  two,  and  the 
frank  expression  of  their  delight  in  meeting  again. 
Here  was  a  friendship  without  any  reserve,  or  any  rue- 
ful misunderstandings,  or  necessity  for  explanations. 
Irene's  eyes  followed  them  with  a  wistful  look  as  they 
went  off  together  round  the  piazza  and  through  the 
parlors,  the  girl  playing  the  part  of  the  hostess,  and 
inducting  him  into  the  mild  gayeties  of  the  place.  The 
height  of  the  season  was  over,  she  said;  there  had  been 
tableaux  and  charades,  and  broom-drills,  and  readings 
and  charity  concerts.  Now  the  season  was  on  the 
sentimental  wane ;  every  night  the  rooms  were  full  of 
whist-players,  and  the  days  were  occupied  in  quiet 
strolling  over  the  hills,  and  excursions  to  Cooperstown 
and  Cherry  Valley  and  "  points  of  view,"  and  visits  to 
the  fields  to  see  the  hop-pickers  at  work.  If  there 
were  a  little  larking  about  the  piazzas  in  the  evening, 


286  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  a  group  here  and  there  pretending  to  be  merry 
over  tall  glasses  with  ice  and  straws  in  them,  and  lin- 
gering good-nights  at  the  stairways,  why  should  the 
aged  and  rheumatic  make  a  note  of  it  ?  Did  they  not 
also  once  prefer  the  dance  to  hobbling  to  the  spring, 
and  the  taste  of  ginger  to  sulphur  ? 

Of  course  the  raison  d'etre  of  being  here  is  the  sul- 
phur spring.  There  is  no  doubt  of  its  efficacy.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  as  unpleasant  as  any  in  the  country.  Every- 
body smells  it,  and  a  great  many  drink  it.  The  artist 
said  that  after  using  it  a  week  the  blind  walk,  the  lame 
se«e,  and  the  dumb  swear.  It  renews  youth,  and  al- 
though the  analyzer  does  not  say  that  it  is  a  "  love 
philter,"  the  statistics  kept  by  the  colored  autocrat  who 
ladles  out  the  fluid  show  that  there  are  made  as  many 
engagements  at  Richfield  as  at  any  other  summer  fair 
in  the  country. 

There  is  not  much  to  chronicle  in  the  peaceful  flow 
of  domestic  life,  and,  truth  to  say,  the  charm  of  Rich- 
field is  largely  in  its  restfulness.  Those  who  go  there 
year  after  year  converse  a  great  deal  about  their  lik- 
ing for  it,  and  think  the  time  well  spent  in  persuad- 
ing new  arrivals  to  take  certain  walks  and  drives.  It 
was  impressed  upon  King  that  he  must  upon  no  ac- 
count omit  a  visit  to  Rum  Hill,  from  the  summit  of 
which  is  had  a  noble  prospect,  including  the  Adiron- 
dack Mountains.  He  tried  this  with  a  walking  party, 
was  driven  back  when  near  the  summit  by  a  thunder- 
storm, which  offered  a  series  of  grand  pictures  in  the 
sky  and  on  the  hills,  and  took  refuge  in  a  farmhouse 
which  was  occupied  by  a  band  of  hop-pickers.  These 
adventurers  are  mostly  young  girls  and  young  men 


- 


288  Their  Pilgrimage. 

from  the  cities  and  factory  villages,  to  whom  this  is 
the  only  holiday  of  the  year.  Many  of  the  pickers, 
however,  are  veterans.  At  this  season  one  meets  them 
on  all  the  roads,  driving  from  farm  to  farm  in  lumber 
wagons,  carrying  into  the  dull  rural  life  their  slang, 
and  "Captain  Jinks"  songs,  and  shocking  free  man- 
ners. At  the  great  hop  fields  they  lodge  all  together 
in  big  barracks,  and  they  make*  lively  for  the  time 
whatever  farmhouse  they  occupy.  They  are  a  "  rough 
lot,"  and  need  very  much  the  attention  of  the  poet  and 
the  novelist,  who  might  (if  they  shut  their  eyes)  make 
this  season  as  romantic  as  vintage-time  on  the  Rhine, 
or  "  moonshining  "  on  the  Southern  mountains.  The 
hop  field  itself,  with  its  tall  poles  draped  in  graceful 
vines  which  reach  from  pole  to  pole,  and  hang  their 
yellowing  fruit  in  pretty  festoons  and  arbors,  is  much 
more  picturesque  than  the  vine-clad  hills. 

Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  found  many  acquaintances  here 
from  New  York  and  Philadelphia  and  Newport,  and, 
to  do  her  justice,  she  introduced  Irene  to  them,  and 
presently  involved  her  in  so  many  pleasure  parties  and 
excursions  that  she  and  King  were  scarcely  ever  alone 
together.  When  opportunity  offered  for  a  stroll  d 
deux,  the  girl's  manner  was  so  constrained  that  King 
was  compelled  to  ask  the  reason  of  it.  He  got  very 
little  satisfaction,  and  the  puzzle  of  her  conduct  was 
increased  by  her  confession  that  she  loved  him  just 
the  same,  and  always  should. 

" But  something  has  come  between  us,"  he  said.  "I 
think  I  have  the  right  to  be  treated  with  perfect  frank- 
ness." 

"So  you  have,"  she  replied.     "There  is  nothing — 


Their  Pilgrimage.  289 

nothing  at  least  that  changes  my  feeling  towards 
you." 

"  But  you  think  that  mine  is  changed  for  you  ?" 

"No,  not  that,  either,  never  that;"  and  her  voice 
showed  excitement  as  she  turned  away  her  head.  "  But 
don't  you  know,  Stanhope,  you  have  not  known  me 
very  long,  and  perhaps  you  have  been  a  little  hasty, 
and — how  shall  I  say  it  ? — if  you  had  more  time  to  re- 
flect, when  you  go  back  to  your  associates  and  your 
active  life,  it  might  somehow  look  differently  to  you, 
and  your  prospects — 

"  Why,  Irene,  I  have  no  prospects  without  you.  I 
love  you;  you  are  my  life.  I  don't  understand.  I  am 
just  yours,  and  nothing  you  can  do  will  ever  make  it 
any  different  for  me;  but  if  you  want  to  be  free — " 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  girl,  trying  in  vain  to  restrain 
her  agitation  and  her  tears,  "  not  that.  I  don't  want 
to  be  free.  But  you  will  not  understand.  Circum- 
stances are  so  cruel,  and  if,  Stanhope,  you  ever  should 
regret  when  it  is  too  late!  It  would  kill  me.  I  want 
you  to  be  happy.  And,  Stanhope,  promise  me  that, 
whatever  happens,  you  will  not  think  ill  of  me." 

Of  course  he  promised,  he  declared  that  nothing 
could  happen,  he  vowed,  and  he  protested  against  this 
ridiculous  phantom  in  her  mind.  To  a  man,  used  to 
straightforward  cuts  in  love  as  in  any  other  object  of 
his  desire,  this  feminine  exaggeration  of  conscientious- 
ness is  wholly  incomprehensible.  How  under  heavens 
a  woman  could  get  a  kink  of  duty  in  her  mind  which 
involved  the  sacrifice  of  herself  and  her  lover  was  past 
his  fathoming. 

The  morning  after  this  conversation,  the  most  of 
19 


290  Their  Pilgrimage. 

which  the  reader  has  been  spared,  there  was  an  excur- 
sion to  Cooperstown.  The  early  start  of  the  tally-ho 
coaches  for  this  trip  is  one  of  the  chief  sensations  of 
the  quiet  village.  The  bustle  to  collect  the  laggards, 
the  importance  of  the  conductors  and  drivers,  the 
scramble  up  the  ladders,  the  ruses  to  get  congenial 
seat-neighbors,  the  fine  spirits  of  everybody  evoked 
by  the  fresh  morning  air,  and  the  elevation  on  top  of 
the  coaches,  give  the  start  an  air  of  jolly  adventure. 
Away  they  go,  the  big  red-and-yellow  arks,  swinging 
over  the  hills  and  along  the  well-watered  valleys,  past 
the  twin  lakes  to  Otsego,  over  which  hangs  the  ro- 
mance of  Cooper's  tales,  where  a  steamer  waits.  This 
is  one  of  the  most  charming  of  the  little  lakes  that  dot 
the  interior  of  New  York;  without  bold  shores  or  any- 
thing sensational  in  its  scenery,  it  is  a  poetic  element 
in  a  refined  and  lovely  landscape.  There  are  a  few 
fishing-lodges  and  summer  cottages  on  its  banks  (one 
of  them  distinguished  as  "  Sinners'  Best "),  and  a  hotel 
or  two  famous  for  dinners;  but  the  traveller  would  be 
repaid  if  there  were  nothing  except  the  lovely  village 
of  Cooperstown  embowered  in  maples  at  the  foot. 
The  town  rises  gently  from  the  lake,  and  is  very  pict- 
uresque with  its  church  spires  and  trees  and  hand- 
some mansions;  and  nothing  could  be  prettier  than 
the  foreground,  the  gardens,  the  allees  of  willows,  the 
long  boat  wharves  with  hundreds  of  row-boats  and  sail- 
boats, and  the  exit  of  the  Susquehanna  River,  which 
here  swirls  away  under  drooping  foliage,  and  begins 
its  long  journey  to  the  sea.  The  whole  village  has 
an  air  of  leisure  and  refinement.  For  our  tourists  the 
place  was  pervaded  by  the  spirit  of  the  necromancer 


Their  Pilgrimage.  291 

who  has  woven  about  it  the  spell  of  romance;  but  to 
the  ordinary  inhabitants  the  long  residence  of  the  nov- 
elist here  was  not  half  so  important  as  that  of  the  very 
distinguished  citizen  who  had  made  a  great  fortune 
out  of  some  patent,  built  here  a  fine  house,  and  adorned 
his  native  town.  It  is  not  so  very  many  years  since 
Cooper  died,  and  yet  the  boatmen  and  loungers  about 
the  lake  had  only  the  faintest  impression  of  the  man — 
there  was  a  writer  by  that  name,  one  of  them  said,  and 
some  of  his  family  lived  near  the  house  of  the  great 
man  already  referred  to.  The  magician  who  created 
Cooperstown  sleeps  in  the  old  English-looking  church- 
yard of  the  Episcopal  church,  in  the  midst  of  the  graves 
of  his  relations,  and  there  is  a  well-worn  path  to  his 
head-stone.  Whatever  the  common  people  of  the  town 
may  think,  it  is  that  grave  that  draws  most  pilgrims 
to  the  village.  Where  the  hill-side  cemetery  now  is, 
on  the  bank  of  the  lake,  was  his  farm,  which  he  visited 
always  once  and  sometimes  twice  a  day.  He  com- 
monly wrote  only  from  ten  to  twelve  in  the  morning, 
giving  the  rest  of  the  time  to  his  farm  and  the  society 
of  his  family.  During  the  period  of  his  libel  suits, 
when  the  newspapers  represented  him  as  morose  and 
sullen  in  his  retirement,  he  was,  on  the  contrary,  in 
the  highest  spirits  and  the  most  genial  mood.  "  Deer- 
slayer  "  was  written  while  this  contest  was  at  its  height. 
Driving  one  day  from  his  farm  with  his  daughter,  he 
stopped  and  looked  long  over  his  favorite  prospect  on 
the  lake,  and  said,  "  I  must  write  one  more  story,  dear, 
about  our  little  lake."  At  that  moment  the  "  Deer- 
slayer  "  was  born.  He  was  silent  the  rest  of  the  way 
home,  and  went  immediately  to  his  library  and  began 
the  story. 


292  Their  Pilgrimage. 

The  party  returned  in  a  moralizing  vein.  How 
vague  already  in  the  village  which  his  genius  has  made 
known  over  the  civilized  world  is  the  fame  of  Cooper ! 
To  our  tourists  the  place  was  saturated  with  his  pres- 
ence, but  the  new  generation  cares  more  for  its  smart 
prosperity  than  for  all  his  romance.  Many  of  the  pas- 
sengers on  the  boat  had  stopped  at  a  lake-side  tavern 
to  dine,  preferring  a  good  dinner  to  the  associations 
which  drew  our  sentimentalists  to  the  spots  that  were 
hallowed  by  the  necromancer's  imagination.  And  why 
not  ?  One  cannot  live  in  the  past  forever.  The  people 
on  the  boat  who  dwelt  in  Cooperstown  were  not  talk- 
ing about  Cooper,  perhaps  had  not  thought  of  him  for 
a  year.  The  ladies,  seated  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  were 
comparing  notes  about  their  rheumatism  and  the  mea- 
sles of  their  children ;  one  of  them  had  been  to  the 
funeral  of  a  young  girl  who  was  to  have  been  married 
in  the  autumn,  poor  thing,  and  she  told  her  companion 
who  were  at  the  funeral,  and  how  they  were  dressed, 
and  how  little  feeling  Nancy  seemed  to  show,  and  how 
shiftless  it  was  not  to  have  more  flowers,  and  how  the 
bridegroom  bore  up — well,  perhaps  it's  an  escape,  she 
was  so  weakly. 

The  day  lent  a  certain  pensiveness  to  all  this;  the 
season  was  visibly  waning;  the  soft  maples  showed 
color,  the  orchards  were  heavy  with  fruit,  the  moun- 
tain-ash hung  out  its  red  signals,  the  hop-vines  were 
yellowing,  and  in  all  the  fence  corners  the  golden-rod 
flamed  and  made  the  meanest  high-road  a  way  of  glory. 
On  Irene  fell  a  spell  of  sadness  that  affected  her  lover. 
Even  Mrs.  Bartlett-Glow  seemed  touched  by  some  re- 
gret for  the  fleeting  of  the  gay  season,  and  the  top  of 


Their  Pilgrimage.  293 

the  coach  would  have  been  melancholy  enough  but  for 
the  high  spirits  of  Marion  and  the  artist,  whose  gayety 
expanded  in  the  abundance  of  the  harvest  season. 
Happy  natures,  unrestrained  by  the  subtle  melancholy 
of  a  decaying  year  ! 

The  summer  was  really  going.  On  Sunday  the 
weather  broke  in  a  violent  storm  of  wind  and  rain, 
and  at  sunset,  when  it  abated,  there  were  portentous 
gleams  on  the  hills,  and  threatening  clouds  lurking 
about  the  sky.  It  was  time  to  go.  Few  people  have 
the  courage  to  abide  the  breaking  of  the  serenity  of 
summer,  and  remain  in  the  country  for  the  more 
glorious  autumn  days  that  are  to  follow.  The  Glows 
must  hurry  back  to  Newport.  The  Bensons  would 
not  be  persuaded  out  of  their  fixed  plan  to  "  take 
in,"  as  Mr.  Benson  expressed  it,  the  White  Moun- 
tains. The  others  were  going  to  Niagara  and  the 
Thousand  Islands  ;  and  when  King  told  Irene  that 
he  would  much  rather  change  his  route  and  accom- 
pany her,  he  saw  by  the  girl's  manner  that  it  was  best 
not  to  press  the  subject.  He  dreaded  to  push  an  ex- 
planation, and,  foolish  as  lovers  are,  he  was  wise  for 
once  in  trusting  to  time.  But  he  had  a  miserable 
evening.  He  let  himself  be  irritated  by  the  light- 
heartedness  of  Forbes.  He  objected  to  the  latter's 
whistling  as  he  went  about  his  room  packing  up  his 
traps.  He  hated  a  fellow  that  was  always  in  high 
spirits.  "  Why,  what  has  come  over  you,  old  man?" 
queried  the  artist,  stopping  to  take  a  critical  look  at 
his  comrade.  "  Do  you  want  to  get  out  of  it  ?  It's 
my  impression  that  you  haven't  taken  sulphur  water 
enough." 


"WHY,  WHAT  HAS  COME  OVER  YOU,  OLD  MAN?" 

On  Monday  morning  there  was  a  general  clearing 
out.  The  platform  at  the  station  was  crowded.  The 
palace-cars  for  New  York,  for  Niagara,  for  Albany, 
for  the  West,  were  overflowing.  There  was  a  pile  of 
trunks  as  big  as  a  city  dwelling-house.  Baby-carriages 


Their  Pilgrimage.  295 

cumbered  the  way;  dogs  were  under  foot,  yelping  and 
rending  the  tender  hearts  of  their  owners;  the  porters 
staggered  about  under  their  loads,  and  shouted  till 
they  were  hoarse;  farewells  were  said  ;  rendezvous 
made — alas  !  how  many  half-fledged  hopes  came  to 
an  end  on  that  platform  !  The  artist  thought  he  had 
never  seen  so  many  pretty  girls  together  in  his  life  be- 
fore, and  each  one  had  in  her  belt  a  bunch  of  golden- 
rod.  Summer  was  over,  sure  enough. 

At  Utica  the  train  was  broken  up,  and  its  cars  de- 
spatched in  various  directions.  King  remembered  that 
it  was  at  Utica  that  the  younger  Cato  sacrificed  him- 
self. In  the  presence  of  all  the  world  Irene  bade  him 
good-bye.  "  It  will  not  be  for  long,"  said  King,  with 
an  attempt  at  gayety.  "Nothing  is  for  long,"  she 
said,  with  the  same  manner.  And  then  added  in  a 
low  tone,  as  she  slipped  a  note  into  his  hand,  "  Do  not 
think  ill  of  me." 

King  opened  the  note  as  soon  as  he  found  his  seat  in 
the  car,  and  this  was  what  he  read  as  the  train  rushed 
westward  towards  the  Great  Fall: 

"My  DEAR  FRIEND, — How  can  I  ever  say  it?  It 
is  best  that  we  separate.  I  have  thought  and  thought; 
I  have  struggled  with  myself.  I  think  that  I  know  it 
is  best  for  you.  I  have  been  happy — ah  me  !  Dear, 
we  must  look  at  the  world  as  it  is.  We  cannot  change 
it — if  we  break  our  hearts,  we  cannot.  Don't  blame 
your  cousin.  It  is  nothing  that  she  has  done.  She 
has  been  as  sweet  and  kind  to  me  as  possible,  but  I 
have  seen  through  her  what  I  feared,  just  how  it  is. 
Don't  reproach  me.  It  is  hard  now.  I  know  it.  But  I 


296  Their  Pilgrimage. 

believe  that  you  will  come  to  see  it  as  I  do.  If  it  was 
any  sacrifice  that  I  could  make,  that  would  be  easy. 
But  to  think  that  I  had  sacrificed  you,  and  that  you 
should  some  day  become  aware  of  it!  You  are  free. 
I  am  not  silly.  It  is  the  future  I  am  thinking  of. 
You  must  take  your  place  in  the  world  where  your  lot 
is  cast.  Don't  think  I  have  a  foolish  pride.  Perhaps 
it  is  pride  that  tells  me  not  to  put  myself  in  a  false 
position;  perhaps  it  is  something  else.  Never  think 
it  is  want  of  heart  iri  IRENE. 

"Good-bye." 

As  King  finished  this  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 
The  landscape  was  black. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

IN  the  car  for  Niagara  was  an  Englishman  of  the 
receptive,  guileless,  thin  type,  inquisitive  and  over- 
flowing with  approval  of  everything  American — a  type 
which  has  now  become  one  of  the  common  features 
of  travel  in  this  country.  He  had  light  hair,  sandy 
side-whiskers,  a  face  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
scrubbed  with  soap  and  sand-paper,  and  he  wore  a 
sickly  yellow  travelling -suit.  He  was  accompanied 
by  his  wrife,  a  stout,  resolute  matron,  in  heavy  boots, 
a  sensible  stuff  gown,  with  a  lot  of  cotton  lace  fudged 
about  her  neck,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  with  a  vege- 
table garden  on  top.  The  little  man  was  always  in 
pursuit  of  information,  in  his  guide-book  or  from  his 
fellow-passengers,  and  whenever  he  obtained  any  he 
invariably  repeated  it  to  his  wife,  who  said  "Fancy!" 
and  "Now,  really!"  in  a  rising  inflection  that  expressed 
surprise  and  expectation. 

The  conceited  American,  who  commonly  draws  him- 
self into  a  shell  when  he  travels,  and  affects  indiffer- 
ence, and  seems  to  be  losing  all  natural  curiosity, 
receptivity,  and  the  power  of  observation,  is  pretty 
certain  to  undervalue  the  intelligence  of  this  class  of 
English  travellers,  and  get  amusement  out  of  their 
peculiarities  instead  of  learning  from  them  how  to 
make  every  day  of  life  interesting.  Even  King,  who, 
besides  his  national  crust  of  exclusiveness,  was  to-day 


"WHO  SAID,  'FANCY!'  AND  'NOW,  REALLY!"' 

wrapped  in  the  gloom  of  Irene's  letter,  was  gradually 
drawn  to  these  simple,  unpretending  people.  He  took 
for  granted  their  ignorance  of  America — ignorance  of 
America  being  one  of  the  branches  taught  in  the  Eng- 
lish schools— and  he  soon  discovered  that  they  were 
citizens  of  the  world.  They  not  only  knew  the  Con- 
tinent very  well,  but  they  had  spent  a  winter  in  Egypt, 
lived  a  year  in  India,  and  seen  something  of  China  and 
much  of  Japan.  Although  they  had  been  scarcely  a 
fortnight  in  the  United  States,  King  doubted  if  there 
were  ten  women  in  the  state  of  New  York,  not  pro- 
fessional teachers,  who  knew  as  much  of  the  flora  of 
the  country  as  this  plain-featured,  rich-voiced  woman. 
They  called  King's  attention  to  a  great  many  features 
of  the  landscape  he  had  never  noticed  before,  and  asked 


Their  Pilgrimage.  299 

him  a  great  many  questions  about  farming  and  stock 
and  wages  that  he  could  not  answer.  It  appeared  that 
Mr.  Stanley  Stubbs,  Stoke-Cruden — for  that  was  the 
name  and  address  of  the  present  discoverers  of  Amer- 
ica— had  a  herd  of  short-horns,  and  that  Mrs.  Stubbs 
was  even  more  familiar  with  the  herd-book  than  her 
husband.  But  before  the  fact  had  enabled  King  to 
settle  the  position  of  his  new  acquaintance  satisfacto- 
rily to  himself,  Mrs.  Stubbs  upset  his  estimate  by  quot- 
ing Tennyson. 

"  Your  great  English  poet  is  very  much  read  here," 
King  said,  by  way  of  being  agreeable. 

"So  we  have  heard,"  replied  Mrs.  Stubbs.  "Mr. 
Stubbs  reads  Tennyson  beautifully.  He  has  thought 
of  giving  some  readings  while  we  are  here.  We  have 
been  told  that  the  Americans  are  very  fond  of  read- 
ings." 

"  Yes,"  said  King,  "  they  are  devoted  to  them,  espe- 
cially readings  by  Englishmen  in  their  native  tongue. 
There  is  a  great  rage  now  for  everything  English;  at 
Newport  hardly  anything  else  is  spoken." 

Mrs.  Stubbs  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  this  might 
be  an  American  joke;  but  there  was  no  smile  upon 
King's  face,  and  she  only  said,  "Fancy!  You  must 
make  a  note  of  Newport,  dear.  That  is  one  of  the 
places  we  must  see.  Of  course,  Mr.  Stubbs  has  never 
read  in  public,  you  know.  But  I  suppose  that  would 
make  no  difference,  the  Americans  are  so  kind  and  so 
appreciative." 

"  Not  the  least  difference,"  replied  King.  "  They 
are  used  to  it." 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  country,"  said  Mr.  Stubbs. 


300  Their  Pilgrimage. 

" Most  interesting,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Stubbs;  "and  so 
odd!" 

"  You  know,  Mr.  King,  we  find  some  of  the  Amer- 
icans so  clever.  We  have  been  surprised,  really.  It 
makes  us  feel  quite  at  home.  At  the  hotels  and  every- 
where, most  obliging." 

"  Do  you  make  a  long  stay  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  We  just  want  to  study  the  people  and 
the  government,  and  see  the  principal  places.  We 
were  told  that  Albany  is  the  capital,  instead  of  New 
York;  it's  so  odd,  you  know.  And  Washington  is  an- 
other capital.  And  there  is  Boston.  It  must  be  very 
confusing."  King  began  to  suspect  that  he  must  be 
talking  with  the  editor  of  the  Saturday  Review.  Mr. 
Stubbs  continued:  "They  told  us  in  New  York  that 
we  ought  to  go  to  Paterson,  on  the  island  of  Jersey,  I 
believe.  I  suppose  it  is  as  interesting  as  Niagara.  We 
shall  visit  it  on  our  return.  But  we  came  over  more 
to  see  Niagara  than  anything  else.  And  from  there 
we  shall  run  over  to  Chicago  and  the  Yosemite.  Now 
we  are  here,  we  could  not  think  of  going  back  without 
a  look  at  the  Yosemite." 

King  said  that  thus  far  he  had  existed  without  see- 
ing the  Yosemite,  but  he  believed  that  next  to  Chicago 
it  was  the  most  attractive  place  in  the  country. 

It  was  dark  when  they  came  into  the  station  at 
Niagara  —  dark  and  silent.  Our  American  tourists, 
who  were  accustomed  to  the  clamor  of  the  hackmen 
here,  and  expected  to  be  assaulted  by  a  horde  of  wild 
Comanches  in  plain  clothes,  and  torn  limb  from  bag- 
gage, if  not  limb  from  limb,  were  unable  to  account 
for  this  silence,  and  the  absence  of  the  common  high- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  301 

waymen,  until  they  remembered  that  the  state  had 
bought  the  Falls,  and  the  agents  of  the  government 
had  suppressed  many  of  the  old  nuisances.  It  was 
possible  now  to  hear  the  roar  of  the  cataract. 

This  unaccustomed  human  stillness  was  ominous  to 
King.  He  would  have  welcomed  a  Niagara  of  im- 
portunity and  imprecations;  he  was  bursting  with  im- 
patience to  express  himself;  it  seemed  as  if  he  would 
die  if  he  were  silent  an  hour  longer  under  that  letter. 
Of  course  the  usual  American  relief  of  irritability  and 
impatience  suggested  itself.  He  would  telegraph;  only 
electricity  was  quick  enough  and  fiery  enough  for  his 
mood.  But  what  should  he  telegraph?  The  tele- 
graph was  not  invented  for  love-making,  and  is  not 
adapted  to  it.  It  is  ridiculous  to  make  love  by  wire. 
How  was  it  possible  to  frame  a  message  that  should 
be  commercial  on  its  face,  and  yet  convey  the  deepest 
agony  and  devotion  of  the  sender's  heart  ?  King  stood 
at  the  little  telegraph  window,  looking  at  the  de- 
spatcher  who  was  to  send  it,  and  thought  of  this.  De- 
pressed and  intent  as  he  was,  the  whimsicality  of  the 
situation  struck  him.  What  could  he  say  ?  It  illus- 
trates our  sheeplike  habit  of  expressing  ourselves  in 
the  familiar  phrase  or  popular  slang  of  the  day  that  at 
the  instant  the  only  thing  King  could  think  of  to  send 
was  this:  "Hold  the  fort,  for  I  am  coming."  The  in- 
congruity of  this  made  him  smile,  and  he  did  not  write 
it.  Finally  he  composed  this  message,  which  seemed 
to  him  to  have  a  business-like  and  innocent  aspect: 
"  Too  late.  Impossible  for  me  to  change.  Have  in- 
vested everything.  Expect  letter."  Mechanically  he 
counted  the  words  when  he  had  written  this.  On  the 


302  Their  Pilgrimage. 

fair  presumption  that  the  company  would  send  "  every- 
thing "  as  one  word,  there  were  still  two  more  than 
the  conventional  ten,  and,  from  force  of  habit,  he 
struck  out  the  words  "  for  me."  But  he  had  no  sooner 
done  this  than  he  felt  a  sense  of  shame.  It  was  con- 
temptible for  a  man  in  love  to  count  his  words,  and  it 
was  intolerable  to  be  haggling  with  himself  at  such  a 
crisis  over  the  expense  of  a  despatch.  He  got  cold 
over  the  thought  that  Irene  might  also  count  them, 
and  see  that  the  cost  of  this  message  of  passion  had 
been  calculated.  And  with  recklessness  he  added: 
"We  reach  the  Profile  House  next  week,  and  I  am 
sure  I  can  convince  you  I  am  right." 

King  found  Niagara  pitched  to  the  key  of  his  lacer- 
ated and  tumultuous  feelings.  There  were  few  people 
at  the  Cataract  House,  and  either  the  bridal  season 
had  not  set  in,  or  in  America  a  bride  has  been  evolved 
who  does  not  show  any  consciousness  of  her  new  posi- 
tion. In  his  present  mood  the  place  seemed  deserted, 
the  figures  of  the  few  visitors  gliding  about  as  in  a 
dream,  as  if  they  too  had  been  subdued  by  the  recent 
commission  which  had  silenced  the  drivers,  and  stopped 
the  mills,  and  made  the  park  free,  and  was  tearing 
down  the  presumptuous  structures  along  the  bank.  In 
this  silence,  which  emphasized  the  quaking  of  the  earth 
and  air,  there  was  a  sense  of  unknown,  impending  dis- 
aster. It  was  not  to  be  borne  in-doors,  and  the  two 
friends  went  out  into  the  night. 

On  the  edge  of  the  rapids,  above  the  hotel,  the  old 
bath-house  was  in  process  of  demolition,  its  shaking 
piazza  almost  overhanging  the  flood.  Not  much  could 
be  seen  from  it,  but  it  was  in  the  midst  of  an  elemental 


MUZZLED  HACKMEN. 

uproar.  Some  electric  lamps  shining  through  the  trees 
made  high  lights  on  the  crests  of  the  rapids,  while 
the  others  near  were  in  shadow  and  dark.  The  black 
mass  of  Goat  Island  appeared  under  the  lightning 
flashes  in  the  northwest  sky,  and  whenever  these  quick 
gleams  pierced  the  gloom  the  frail  bridge  to  the  isl- 
and was  outlined  for  a  moment,  and  then  vanished  as 


304:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

if  it  had  been  swept  away,  and  there  could  only  be 
Been  sparks  of  light  in  the  houses  on  the  Canadian  shore, 
which  seemed  very  near.  In  this  unknown,  which  was 
rather  felt  than  seen,  there  was  a  sense  of  power  and  of 
mystery  which  overcame  the  mind ;  and  in  the  black 
night  the  roar,  the  cruel  haste  of  the  rapids,  tossing 
white  gleams  and  hurrying  to  the  fatal  plunge,  begat  a 
sort  of  terror  in  the  spectators.  It  was  a  power  implaca- 
ble, vengeful,  not  to  be  measured.  They  strolled  down 
to  Prospect  Park.  The  gate  was  closed;  it  had  been 
the  scene  of  an  awful  tragedy  but  a  few  minutes  before. 
They  did  not  know  it,  but  they  knew  that  the  air  shud- 
dered, and  as  they  skirted  the  grounds  along  the  way 
to  the  foot-bridge  the  roar  grew  in  their  stunned  ears. 
There,  projected  out  into  the  night,  were  the  cables  of 
steel  holding  the  frail  platform  over  the  abyss  of  night 
and  terror.  Beyond  was  Canada.  There  was  light 
enough  in  the  sky  to  reveal,  but  not  to  dissipate,  the  ap- 
palling insecurity.  What  an  impious  thing  it  seemed 
to  them,  this  trembling  structure  across  the  chasm ! 
The^  advanced  upon  it.  There  were  gleams  on  the 
mill  cascades  below,  and  on  the  mass  of  the  American 
Fall.  Below,  down  in  the  gloom,  were  patches  of  foam, 
slowly  circling  around  in  the  eddy — no  haste  now,  just 
sullen  and  black  satisfaction  in  the  awful  tragedy  of 
the  fall.  The  whole  was  vague,  fearful.  Always  the 
roar,  the  shuddering  of  the  air.  I  think  that  a  man 
placed  on  this  bridge  at  night,  and  ignorant  of  the 
cause  of  the  aerial  agitation  and  the  wild  uproar,  could 
almost  lose  his  reason  in  the  panic  of  the  scene. 

They  walked  on ;  they  set  foot  on  Her  Majesty's 
dominions;    they  entered  the  Clifton  House  —  quite 


Their  Pilgrimage.  305 

American,  you  know,  with  its  new  bar  and  office.  A 
subdued  air  about  everybody  here  also,  and  the  same 
quaking,  shivering,  and  impending  sense  of  irrespon- 
sible force.  Even  "  two  fingers,"  said  the  artist,  stand- 
ing at  the  bar,  had  little  effect  in  allaying  the  impres- 
sion of  the  terror  out  there.  When  they  returned 
the  moon  was  coming  up,  rising  and  struggling  and 
making  its  way  slowly  through  ragged  masses  of  col- 
ored clouds.  The  river  could  be  plainly  seen  now, 
smooth,  deep,  treacherous;  the  falls  on  the  American 
side  showed  fitfully  like  patches  of  light  and  foam; 
the  Horseshoe,  mostly  hidden  by  a  cold  silver  mist, 
occasionally  loomed  up  a  white  and  ghostly  mass. 
They  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  American  Fall,  the  moon  now  showing  clearly 
the  plunge  of  the  heavy  column — a  column  as  stiff  as 
if  it  were  melted  silver — hushed  and  frightened  by  the 
weird  and  appalling  scene.  They  did  not  know  at 
that  moment  that  there  where  their  eyes  were  riveted, 
there  at  the  base  of  the  fall,  a  man's  body  was  churn- 
ing about,  plunged  down  and  cast  up,  and  beaten  and 
whirled,  imprisoned  in  the  refluent  eddy.  But  a  body 
was  there.  In  the  morning  a  man's  overcoat  was 
found  on  the  parapet  at  the  angle  of  the  fall.  Some 
one  then  remembered  that  in  the  evening,  just  before 
the  park  gate  closed,  he  had  seen  a  man  approach  the 
angle  of  the  wall  where  the  overcoat  was  found.  The 
man  was  never  seen  after  that.  Night  first,  and  then 
the  hungry  water,  swallowed  him.  One  pictures  the 
fearful  leap  into  the  dark,  the  midway  repentance,  per- 
haps, the  despair  of  the  plunge.  A  body  cast  in  here 
is  likely  to  tarry  for  days,  eddying  round  and  round, 
20 


306  Their  Pilgrimage. 

and  tossed  in  that  terrible  maelstrom,  before  a  chance 
current  ejects  it,  and  sends  it  down  the  fierce  rapids 
below.  King  went  back  to  the  hotel  in  a  terror  of  the 
place,  which  did  not  leave  him  so  long  as  he  remained. 
His  room  quivered,  the  roar  filled  all  the  air.  Is  not 
life  real  and  terrible  enough,  he  asked  himself,  but 
that  brides  must  cast  this  experience  also  into  their 
honeymoon  ? 

The  morning  light  did  not  efface  the  impressions  of 
the  night,  the  dominating  presence  of  a  gigantic,  piti- 
less force,  a  blind  passion  of  nature,  uncontrolled  and 
uncontrollable.  Shut  the  windows  and  lock  the  door, 
you  could  not  shut  out  the  terror  of  it.  The  town  did 
not  seem  safe;  the  bridges,  the  buildings  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipices  with  their  shaking  casements,  the 
islands,  might  at  any  moment  be  engulfed  and  dis- 
appear. It  was  a  thing  to  flee  from. 

I  suspect  King  was  in  a  very  sensitive  mood;  the 
world  seemed  for  the  moment  devoid  of  human  sym- 
pathy, and  the  savageness  and  turmoil  played  upon 
his  bare  nerves.  The  artist  himself  shrank  from  con- 
tact with  this  overpowering  display,  and  said  that  he 
could  not  endure  more  than  a  day  or  two  of  it.  It 
needed  all  the  sunshine  in  the  face  of  Miss  Lamont 
and  the  serenity  of  her  cheerful  nature  to  make  the 
situation  tolerable,  and  even  her  sprightliness  was 
somewhat  subdued.  It  was  a  day  of  big,  broken,  high- 
sailing  clouds,  with  a  deep  blue  sky  and  strong  sun- 
light. The  slight  bridge  to  Goat  Island  appeared  more 
presumptuous  by  daylight,  and  the  sharp  slope  of  the 
rapids  above  it  gave  a  new  sense  of  the  impetuosity 
of  the  torrent.  As  they  walked  slowly  on,  past  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  307 

now  abandoned  paper-mills  and  the  other  human  im- 
pertinences, the  elemental  turmoil  increased,  and  they 
seemed  entering  a  world  the  foundations  of  which  were 
broken  up.  This  must  have  been  a  good  deal  a  mat- 
ter of  impression,  for  other  parties  of  sight-seers  were 
coming  and  going,  apparently  unawed,  and  intent  sim- 
ply on  visiting  every  point  spoken  of  in  the  guide- 
book, and  probably  unconscious  of  the  all-pervading 
terror.  But  King  could  not  escape  it,  even  in  the 
throng  descending  and  ascending  the  stairway  to  Luna 
Island.  Standing  upon  the  platform  at  the  top,  he 
realized  for  the  first  time  the  immense  might  of  the 
downpour  of  the  American  Fall,  and  noted  the  pale 
green  color,  with  here  and  there  a  violet  tone,  and  the 
white  cloud  mass  spurting  out  from  the  solid  color. 
On  the  foam-crested  river  lay  a  rainbow  forming  near- 
ly a  complete  circle.  The  little  steamer  Maid  of  the 
Mist  was  coming  up,  riding  the  waves,  dashed  here  and 
there  by  conflicting  currents,  but  resolutely  steaming 
on — such  is  the  audacity  of  man — and  poking  her  ven- 
turesome nose  into  the  boiling  foam  under  the  Horse- 
shoe. On  the  deck  are  pigmy  passengers  in  oil-skin 
suits,  clumsy  figures,  like  arctic  explorers.  The  boat 
tosses  about  like  a  chip,  it  hesitates  and  quivers,  and 
then,  slowly  swinging,  darts  away  down  the  current, 
fleeing  from  the  wrath  of  the  waters,  and  pursued  by 
the  angry  roar. 

Surely  it  is  an  island  of  magic,  unsubstantial,  liable 
to  go  adrift  and  plunge  into  the  canon.  Even  in  the 
forest  path,  where  the  great  tree  trunks  assure  one  of 
stability  and  long  immunity,  this  feeling  cannot  be 
shaken  off.  Our  party  descended  the  winding  stair- 


308  Their  Pilgrimage. 

case  in  the  tower,  and  walked  on  the  shelf  under  the 
mighty  ledge  to  the  entrance  of  the  Cave  of  the  Winds. 
The  curtain  of  water  covering  this  entrance  was  blown 
back  and  forth  by  the  wind,  now  leaving  the  platform 
dry  and  now  deluging  it.  A  woman  in  the  pathway 
was  beckoning  frantically  and  calling  to  a  man  who 
stood  on  the  platform,  entirely  unconscious  of  danger, 
looking  up  to  the  green  curtain  and  down  into  the 
boiling  mist.  It  was  Mrs.  Stubbs;  'but  she  was  shout- 
ing against  Niagara,  and  her  husband  mistook  her 
pantomime  for  gestures  of  wonder  and  admiration. 
Some  moments  passed,  and  then  the  curtain  swung  in, 
and  tons  of  water  drenched  the  Englishman,  and  for 
an  instant  hid  him  from  sight.  Then,  as  the  curtain 
swung  back,  he  was  seen  clinging  to  the  handrail, 
sputtering  and  astonished  at  such  treatment.  He  came 
up  the  bank  dripping,  and  declaring  that  it  was  ex- 
traordinary, most  extraordinary,  but  he  wouldn't  have 
missed  it  for  the  world.  From  this  platform  one  looks 
down  the  narrow,  slippery  stairs  that  are  lost  in  the 
boiling  mist,  and  wonders  at  the  daring  that  built  these 
steps  down  into  that  hell,  and  carried  the  frail  walk  of 
planks  over  the  bowlders  outside  the  fall.  A  party  in 
oil-skins,  making  their  way  there,  looked  like  lost  men 
and  women  in  a  Dante  Inferno.  The  turbulent  waters 
dashed  all  about  them;  the  mist  occasionally  wrapped 
them  from  sight ;  they  clung  to  the  rails,  they  tried  to 
speak  to  each  other;  their  gestures  seemed  motions  of 
despair.  Could  that  be  Eurydice  whom  the  rough 
guide  was  tenderly  dragging  out  of  the  hell  of  waters, 
up  the  stony  path,  that  singular  figure  in  oil-skin  trou- 
sers, who  disclosed  a  pretty  face  inside  her  hood  as  she 


A  PARTY  IN  OIL-SKINS. 


310  Their  Pilgrimage. 

emerged?  One  might  venture  into  the  infernal  re- 
gions to  rescue  such  a  woman;  but  why  take  her  there  ? 
The  group  of  adventurers  stopped  a  moment  on  the 
platform,  with  the  opening  into  the  misty  cavern  for  a 
background,  and  the  artist  said  that  the  picture  was, 
beyond  all  power  of  the  pencil,  strange  and  fantastic. 
There  is  nothing,  after  all,  that  the  human  race  will 
not  dare  for  a  new  sensation. 

The  walk  around  Goat  Island  is  probably  unsur- 
passed in  the  world  for  wonder  and  beauty.  The 
Americans  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  their 
share  of  the  fall;  they  get  nowhere  one  single  grand 
view  like  that  from  the  Canada  side,  but  infinitely  the 
deepest  impression  of  majesty  and  power  is  obtained 
on  Goat  Island.  There  the  spectator  is  in  the  midst  of 
the  war  of  nature.  From  the  point  over  the  Horse- 
shoe Fall  our  friends,  speaking  not  much,  but  more 
and  more  deeply  moved,  strolled  along  in  the  lovely 
forest,  in  a  rural  solemnity,  in  a  local  calm,  almost  a 
seclusion,  except  for  the  ever-present  shuddering  roar 
in  the  air.  On  the  shore  above  the  Horseshoe  they  first 
comprehended  the  breadth,  the  great  sweep,  of  the  rap- 
ids. The  white  crests  of  the  waves  in  the  west  were 
coming  out  from  under  a  black,  lowering  sky;  all  the 
foreground  was  in  bright  sunlight,  dancing,  sparkling, 
leaping,  hurrying  on,  converging  to  the  angle  where 
the  water  becomes  a  deep  emerald  at  the  break  and 
plunge.  The  rapids  above  are  a  series  of  shelves, 
bristling  with  jutting  rocks  and  lodged  trunks  of  trees, 
and  the  wildness  of  the  scene  is  intensified  by  the 
ragged  fringe  of  evergreens  on  the  opposite  shore. 

Over  the  whole  island  the  mist,  rising  from  the  cal- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  311 

dron,  drifts  in  spray  when  the  wind  is  favorable;  but 
on  this  day  the  forest  was  bright  and  cheerful,  and  as 
the  strollers  went  farther  away  from  the  Great  Fall, 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  began  to  steal  away  its  terror. 
The  roar  was  still  dominant,  but  far  off  and  softened, 
and  did  not  crush  the  ear.  The  triple  islands,  the 
Three  Sisters,  in  their  picturesque  wildness  appeared 
like  playful  freaks  of  nature  in  a  momentary  relaxation 
of  the  savage  mood.  Here  is  the  finest  view  of  the 
river;  to  one  standing  on  the  outermost  island  the 
great  flood  seems  tumbling  out  of  the  sky.  They  con- 
tinued along  the  bank  of  the  river.  The  shallow 
stream  races  by  headlong,  but  close  to  the  edge  are 
numerous  eddies,  and  places  where  one  might  step  in 
and  not  be  swept  away.  At  length  they  reached  the 
point  where  the  river  divides,  and  the  water  stands  for 
an  instant  almost  still,  hesitating  whether  to  take  the 
Canadian  or  American  plunge.  Out  a  little  way  from 
the  shore  the  waves  leap  and  tumble,  and  the  two  cur- 
rents are  like  race-horses  parted  on  two  ways  to  the 
goal.  Just  at  this  point  the  water  swirls  and  lingers, 
having  lost  all  its  fierceness  and  haste,  and  spreads  it- 
self out  placidly,  dimpling  in  the  sun.  It  may  be  a 
treacherous  pause,  this  water  may  be  as  cruel  as  that 
which  rages  below  and  exults  in  catching  a  boat  or  a 
man  and  bounding  with  the  victim  over  the  cataract; 
but  the  calm  was  very  grateful  to  the  stunned  and 
buffeted  visitors;  upon  their  jarred  nerves  it  was  like 
the  peace  of  God. 

"The  preacher  might  moralize  here,"  said  King. 
"  Here  are  the  parting  of  the  ways  for  the  young  man; 
here  is  a  moment  of  calm  in  which  he  can  decide  which 


312  Their  Pilgrimage. 

course  he  will  take.  See,  with  my  hand  I  can  turn  the 
waters  to  Canada  or  to  America !  So  momentous  is 
the  easy  decision  of  the  moment." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  artist,  "  your  figure  is  perfect. 
Whichever  side  the  young  man  takes,  he  goes  to  de- 
struction." 

"  Or,"  continued  King,  appealing  to  Miss  Lamont 
against  this  illogical  construction,  "  this  is  the  maiden 
at  the  crucial  instant  of  choosing  between  two  impet- 
uous suitors." 

"You  mean  she  will  be  sorry,  whichever  she 
chooses  ?" 

"  You  two  practical  people  would  spoil  any  illustra- 
tion in  the  world.  You  would  divest  the  impressive 
drop  of  water  on  the  mountain  summit,  which  might 
go  to  the  Atlantic  or  to  the  Pacific,  of  all  moral  char- 
acter by  saying  that  it  makes  no  difference  which  ocean 
it  falls  into." 

The  relief  from  the  dread  of  Niagara  felt  at  this 
point  of  peace  was  only  temporary.  The  dread  re- 
turned when  the  party  approached  again  the  turmoil 
of  the  American  Fall,  and  fell  again  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  merciless  haste  of  the  flood.  And  there 
every  islet,  every  rock,  every  point,  has  its  legend  of 
terror;  here  a  boat  lodged  with  a  man  in  it,  and  after 
a  day  and  night  of  vain  attempts  to  rescue  him,  thou- 
sands of  people  saw  him  take  the  frightful  leap,  throw- 
ing up  his  arms  as  he  went  over;  here  a  young  woman 
slipped,  and  was  instantly  whirled  away  out  of  life; 
and  from  that  point  more  than  one  dazed  or  frantic 
visitor  had  taken  the  suicidal  leap.  Death  was  so  near 
here  and  so  easy  ! 


Their  Pilgrimage.  313 

One  seems  in  less  personal  peril  on  the  Canadian 
side,  and  has  more  the  feeling  of  a  spectator,  and  less 
that  of  a  participant  in  the  wild  uproar.  Perhaps 
there  is  more  sense  of  force,  but  the  majesty  of  the 
scene  is  relieved  by  a  hundred  shifting  effects  of  light 
and  color.  In  the  afternoon,  under  a  broken  sky,  the 
rapids  above  the  Horseshoe  reminded  one  of  the  sea- 
shore on  a  very  stormy  day.  Impeded  by  the  rocks, 
the  flood  hesitated  and  even  ran  back,  as  if  reluctant 
to  take  the  final  plunge !  The  sienna  color  of  the 
water  on  the  table  contrasted  sharply  with  the  emer- 
ald at  the  break  of  the  fall.  A  rainbow  springing  out 
of  the  centre  of  the  caldron  arched  clear  over  the 
American  cataract,  and  was  one  moment  bright  and 
the  next  dimly  seen  through  the  mist,  which  boiled  up 
out  of  the  foam  of  waters  and  swayed  in  the  wind. 
Through  this  veil  darted  adventurous  birds,  flashing 
their  wings  in  the  prismatic  colors,  and  circling  about 
as  if  fascinated  by  the  awful  rush  and  thunder.  With 
the  shifting  wind  and  the  passing  clouds  the  scene 
was  in  perpetual  change  ;  now  the  American  Fall  was 
creamy  white,  and  the  mist  below  dark,  and  again  the 
heavy  mass  was  gray  and  sullen,  and  the  mist  like 
silver  spray.  Perhaps  nowhere  else  in  the  world  is 
the  force  of  nature  so  overpowering  to  the  mind,  and 
as  the  eye  wanders  from  the  chaos  of  the  fall  to  the 
far  horizon,  where  the  vast  rivers  of  rapids  are  poured 
out  of  the  sky,  one  feels  that  this  force  is  inexhaustible 
and  eternal. 

If  our  travellers  expected  to  escape  the  impression 
they  were  under  by  driving  down  to  the  rapids  and 
whirlpool  below,  they  were  mistaken.  Nowhere  is 


314  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  river  so  terrible  as  where  it  rushes,  as  if  maddened 
by  its  narrow  bondage,  through  the  canon.  Flung 
down  the  precipice  and  forced  into  this  contracted 
space,  it  fumes  and  tosses  and  rages  with  vindictive 
fury,  driving  on  in  a  passion  that  has  almost  a  human 
quality  in  it.  Restrained  by  the  walls  of  stone  from 
being  destructive,  it  seems  to  rave  at  its  own  impo- 
tence, and  when  it  reaches  the  whirlpool  it  is  like  a 
hungry  animal,  returning  and  licking  the  shore  for 
the  prey  it  has  missed.  But  it  has  not  always  wanted 
a  prey.  Now  and  again  it  has  a  wreck  or  a  dead  body 
to  toss  and  fling  about.  Although  it  does  not  need 
the  human  element  of  disaster  to  make  this  canon 
grewsome,  the  keepers  of  the  show  places  make  the 
most  of  the  late  Captain  Webb.  So  vivid  were  their 
narratives  that  our  sympathetic  party  felt  his  presence 
continually,  saw  the  strong  swimmer  tossed  like  a 
chip,  saw  him  throw  up  his  hands,  saw  the  agony  in 
his  face  at  the  spot  where  he  was  last  seen.  There 
are  several  places  where  he  disappeared,  each  vouched 
for  by  credible  witnesses,  so  that  the  horror  of  the 
scene  is  multiplied  for  the  tourist.  The  late  afternoon 
had  turned  gray  and  cold,  and  dashes  of  rain  fell  as 
our  party  descended  to  the  whirlpool.  As  they  looked 
over  the  heaped-up  and  foaming  waters  in  this  eddy 
they  almost  expected  to  see  Captain  Webb  or  the  sui- 
cide of  the  night  before  circling  round  in  the  mael- 
strom. They  came  up  out  of  the  gorge  silent,  and 
drove  back  to  the  hotel  full  of  nervous  apprehension. 
King  found  no  telegram  from  Irene,  and  the  place 
seemed  to  him  intolerable.  The  artist  was  quite  ready 
to  go  on  in  the  morning;  indeed,  the  whole  party,  al- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  315 

though  they  said  it  was  unreasonable,  confessed  that 
they  were  almost  afraid  to  stay  longer;  the  roar,  the 
trembling,  the  pervading  sense  of  a  blind  force  and 
rage,  inspired  a  nameless  dread.  The  artist  said,  the 
next  morning  at  the  station,  that  he  understood  the 
feelings  of  Lot. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


HE  occupation  of  being  a  red  man, 
a  merchant  of  baskets  and  bead- 
work,  is  taken  up  by  so  many  tra- 
ders with  a  brogue  and  a  twang 
at  our  watering-places  that  it  is 
difficult  for  the  traveller  to  keep 
alive  any  sentiment  about  this 
race.  But  at  a  station  beyond 
Lewiston  our  tourists  were  re- 
minded of  it,  and  of  its  capacity 
for  adopting  our  civilization  in 
its  most  efflorescent  development. 
The  train  was  invaded  by  a  band 
of  Indians,  or,  to  speak  correct- 
ly? by  an  Indian  band.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  like  a  brass  band  in  a  country 
town  ;  it  probably  gives  more  pleasure  to  the  per- 
formers than  any  other  sort  of  labor.  Yet  the  delight 
it  imparts  to  the  listeners  is  apt  to  be  tempered  by  a 
certain  sense  of  incongruity  between  the  peaceful  cit- 
izens who  compose  it  and  the  bellicose  din  they  pro- 
duce. There  is  a  note  of  barbarism  in  the  brassy  jar 
and  clamor  of  the  instruments,  enhanced  by  the  be- 
wildering ambition  of  each  player  to  force  through 
his  piece  the  most  noise  and  jangle,  which  is  not  al- 


A  BAND  OF  INDIANS." 


ways  covered  and  subdued  into  a  harmonious  whole 
by  the  whang  of  the  bass  drum. 

There  was  nothing  of  this  incongruity  between  this 
band  of  Tuscaroras  and  their  occupation.  Unaccus- 
tomed to  associate  the  North  American  Indian  with 
music,  the  traveller  at  once  sees  the  natural  relation 
of  the  Indians  with  the  brass  band.  These  Tuscaroras 
were  stalwart  fellows,  broad-faced,  big-limbed,  serious, 
and  they  carried  themselves  with  a  clumsy  but  im- 
pressive dignity.  There  was  no  uniformity  in  their 
apparel,  yet  each  one  wore  some  portion  of  a  martial 
and  resplendent  dress — an  ornamented  kepi,  or  a  scar- 
let sash,  or  big  golden  epaulets,  or  a  military  coat 
braided  with  yellow.  The  leader,  who  was  a  giant, 
and  carried  the  smallest  instrument,  outshone  all  the 
others  in  his  incongruous  splendor.  No  sooner  had 


318  Their  Pilgrimage. 

they  found  seats  at  one  end  of  the  car  than  they  tin- 
limbered,  and  began  through  their  various  reluctant 
instruments  to  deploy  a  tune.  Although  the  tune  did 
not  get  well  into  line,  the  effect  was  marvellous.  The 
car  was  instantly  filled  to  bursting.  Miss  Lamont, 
who  was  reading  at  the  other  end  of  the  car,  gave  a 
nervous  start,  and  looked  up  in  alarm.  King  and 
Forbes  promptly  opened  windows,  but  this  gave  lit- 
tle relief.  The  trombone  pumped  and  growled,  the 
trumpet  blared,  the  big  brass  instrument  with  a  calyx 
like  the  monstrous  tropical  water-lily  quivered  and 
howled,  and  the  drum,  banging  into  the  discord, 
smashed  every  tympanum  in  the  car.  The  Indians 
looked  pleased.  No  sooner  had  they  broken  one  tune 
into  fragments  than  they  took  up  another,  and  the 
car  roared  and  rattled  and  jarred  all  the  way  to  the 
lonely  station  where  the  band  debarked,  and  was  last 
seen  convoying  a  straggling  Odd-Fellows'  picnic  down 
a  country  road. 

The  incident,  trivial  in  itself,  gave  rise  to  serious 
reflections  touching  the  capacity  and  use  of  the  red 
man  in  modern  life.  Here  is  a  peaceful  outlet  for  all 
his  wild  instincts.  Let  the  government  turn  all  the 
hostiles  on  the  frontier  into  brass  bands,  and  we  shall 
hear  no  more  of  the  Indian  question. 

The  railway  along  the  shore  of  Lake  Ontario  is  for 
the  most  part  monotonous.  After  leaving  the  pict- 
uresque highlands  about  Lewiston,  the  country  is  flat, 
and  although  the  view  over  the  lovely  sheet  of  blue 
wrater  is  always  pleasing,  there  is  something  bleak 
even  in  summer  in  this  vast  level  expanse  from  which 
the  timber  has  been  cut  away.  It  may  have  been 


Their  Pilgrimage.  319 

mere  fancy,  but  to  the  tourists  the  air  seemed  thin, 
and  the  scene,  artistically  speaking,  was  cold  and  col- 
orless. With  every  desire  to  do  justice  to  the  pretty 
town  of  Oswego,  which  lies  on  a  gentle  slope  by  the 
lake,  it  had  to  them  an  out-of-doors,  unprotected,  re- 
mote aspect.  Seen  from  the  station,  it  did  not  appear 
what  it  is,  the  handsomest  city  on  Lake  Ontario,  with 
the  largest  starch  factory  in  the  world. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  the  train  reached  Cape 
Vincent,  where  the  steamer  waited  to  transport  pas- 
sengers down  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  weather  had 
turned  cool  ;  the  broad  river,  the  low  shores,  the  long 
islands  which  here  divide  its  lake-like  expanse,  wanted 
atmospheric  warmth,  and  the  tourists  could  not  escape 
the  feeling  of  lonesomeness,  as  if  they  were  on  the 
other  side  of  civilization,  rather  than  in  one  of  the 
great  streams  of  summer  frolic  and  gayety.  It  was 
therefore  a  very  agreeable  surprise  to  them  when  a 
travelling  party  alighted  from  one  of  the  cars,  which 
had  come  from  Rome,  among  whom  they  recognized 
Mrs.  Farquhar. 

"  I  knew  my  education  never  could  be  complete," 
said  that  lady  as  she  shook  hands,  "  and  you  never 
would  consider  me  perfectly  in  the  Union  until  I  had 
seen  the  Thousand  Islands  ;  and  here  I  am,  after  many 
Yankee  tribulations." 

"And  why  didn't  you  come  by  Niagara?"  asked 
Miss  Lamont. 

"  My  dear,  perhaps  your  uncle  could  tell  you  that  I 
saw  enough  of  Niagara  when  I  was  a  young  lady, 
during  the  war.  The  crudest  thing  you  Yankees  did 
was  to  force  us,  who  couldn't  fight,  to  go  over  there 


320  Their  Pilgrimage. 

for  sympathy.  The  only  bearable  thing  about  the 
fall  of  Richmond  was  that  it  relieved  me  from  that 
Fall.  But  where,"  she  added,  turning  to  King,  "  are 
the  rest  of  your  party  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  the  Bensons,"  said  he,  with  a  rather 
rueful  countenance,  "  I  believe  they  have  gone  to  the 
White  Mountains." 

"  Oh,  not  lost,  but  gone  before.  You  believe  ?  If 
you  knew  the  nights  I  have  lain  awake  thinking  about 
you  two,  or  you  three  !  I  fear  you  have  not  been 
wide-awake  enough  yourself." 

"  I  knew  I  could  depend  on  you,  Mrs.  Farquhar,  for 
that." 

The  steamer  was  moving  off,  taking  a  wide  sweep 
to  follow  the  channel.  The  passengers  were  all  en- 
gaged in  ascertaining  the  names  of  the  islands  and  of 
the  owners  of  the  cottages  and  club-houses.  "It  is  a 
kind  of  information  I  have  learned  to  dispense  with," 
said  Mrs.  Farquhar.  And  the  tourists,  except  three 
or  four  resolutely  inquisitive,  soon  tired  of  it.  The 
islands  multiplied  ;  the  boat  wound  in  and  out  among 
them  in  narrow  straits.  To  sail  thus  amid  rockv 
islets,  hirsute  with  firs,  promised  to  be  an  unfailing 
pleasure.  It  might  have  been,  if  darkness  had  not 
speedily  fallen.  But  it  is  notable  how  soon  passen- 
gers on  a  steamer  become  indifferent  and  listless  in 
any  sort  of  scenery.  Where  the  scenery  is  monoto- 
nous and  repeats  itself  mile  after  mile  and  hour  after 
hour,  an  intolerable  weariness  falls  upon  the  company. 
The  enterprising  group  who  have  taken  all  the  best 
seats  in  the  bow,  with  the  intention  of  gormandizing 
the  views,  exhibit  little  staying  power ;  either  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  321 

monotony  or  the  wind  drives  them  into  the  cabin. 
And  passengers  in  the  cabin  occupying  chairs  and 
sofas,  surrounded  by  their  baggage,  always  look  bored 
and  melancholy. 

"  I  always  think,"  said  Mrs.  Farquhar,  "  that  I  am 
going  to  enjoy  a  ride  on  a  steamer,  but  I  never  do. 
It  is  impossible  to  get  out  of  a  draught,  and  the  prog- 
ress is  so  slow  that  variety  enough  is  not  presented  to 
the  eye  to  keep  one  from  ennui"  Nevertheless,  Mrs. 
Farquhar  and  King  remained  on  deck,  in  such  shelter 
as  they  could  find,  during  the  three  hours'  sail,  braced 
up  by  the  consciousness  that  they  were  doing  their 
duty  in  regard  to  the  enterprise  that  has  transformed 
this  lovely  stream  into  a  highway  of  display  and  en- 
joyment. Miss  Lament  and  the  artist  went  below, 
frankly  confessing  that  they  could  see  all  that  inter- 
ested them  from  the  cabin  windows.  And  they  had 
their  reward ;  for  in  this  little  cabin,  where  supper 
was  served,  a  drama  was  going  on  between  the  cook 
and  the  two  waiting-maids  and  the  cabin  boy,  a  drama 
of  love  and  coquetry  and  jealousy  and  hope  deferred, 
quite  as  important  to  those  concerned  as  any  of  the 
watering-place  comedies,  and  played  with  entire  un- 
consciousness of  the  spectators. 

The  evening  was  dark,  and  the  navigation  in  the 
tortuous  channels  sometimes  difficult,  and  might  have 
been  dangerous  but  for  the  lighthouses.  The  steamer 
crept  along  in  the  shadows  of  the  low  islands,  making 
frequent  landings,  and  never  long  out  of  sight  of  the 
illuminations  of  hotels  and  cottages.  Possibly  by 
reason  of  these  illuminations  this  passage  has  more 
variety  by  night  than  by  day.  There  was  certainly 
21 


322 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


a  fascination  about  this  alternating  brilliancy  and 
gloom.  On  nearly  every  island  there  was  at  least  a 
cottage,  and  on  the  larger  islands  were  great  hotels, 
camp  -  meeting  establishments,  and  houses  and  tents 
for  the  entertainment  of  thousands  of  people.  Late 
as  it  was  in  the  season,  most  of  the  temporary  villages 
and  solitary  lodges  were  illuminated  ;  colored  lamps 


ILLUMINATING. 

were  set  about  the  grounds,  Chinese  lanterns  hung 
in  the  evergreens,  and  on  half  a  dozen  lines  radiating 
from  the  belfry  of  the  hotel  to  the  ground,  while  all 
the  windows  blazed  and  scintillated.  Occasionally  as 
the  steamer  passed  these  places  of  irrepressible  gayety 
rockets  were  let  off,  Bengal  -  lights  were  burned,  and 


Their  Pilgrimage.  323 

cnce  a  cannon  attempted  to  speak  the  joy  of  the  so- 
journers.  It  was  like  a  continued  Fourth  of  July, 
and  King's  heart  burned  within  him  with  national 
pride.  Even  Mrs.  Farqtihar  had  to  admit  that  it  was 
a  fairy  spectacle.  During  the  months  of  July  and 
August  this  broad  river,  with  its  fantastic  islands,  is 
at  night  simply  a  highway  of  glory.  The  worldlings 
and  the  camp-meeting  gatherings  vie  with  each  other 
in  the  display  of  colored  lights  and  fireworks.  And 
such  places  as  the  Thousand  Islands  Park,  Wellesley 
and  Wesley  parks,  and  so  on,  twinkling  with  lamps 
and  rosy  with  pyrotechnics,  like  sections  of  the  sky 
dropped  upon  the  earth,  create  in  the  mind  of  the 
steamer  pilgrim  an  indescribable  earthly  and  heaven- 
ly excitement.  He  does  not  look  upon  these  displays 
as  advertisements  of  rival  resorts,  but  as  generous 
contributions  to  the  hilarity  of  the  world. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  marvellous  spectacle,  this  view  for 
thirty  or  forty  miles,  and  the  simple  traveller  begins 
to  realize  what  American  enterprise  is  when  it  lays 
itself  out  for  pleasure.  These  miles  and  miles  of  cot- 
tages, hotels,  parks,  and  camp-meetings  are  the  crea- 
tion of  only  a  few  years,  and  probably  can  scarcely 
be  paralleled  elsewhere  in  the  world  for  rapidity  of 
growth.  But  the  strongest  impression  the  traveller 
has  is  of  the  public  spirit  of  these  summer  sojourners, 
speculators,  and  religious  enthusiasts.  No  man  lives 
to  himself  alone,  or  builds  his  cottage  for  his  selfish 
gratification.  He  makes  fantastic  carpentry,  and 
paints  and  decorates  and  illuminates  and  shows  fire- 
works, for  the  genuine  sake  of  display.  One  marvels 
that  a  person  should  come  here  for  rest  and  pleasure 


324:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

in  a  spirit  of  such  devotion  to  the  public  weal,  and 
devote  himself  night  after  night  for  months  to  illumi- 
nating his  house  and  lighting  up  his  island,  and  tear- 
ing open  the  sky  with  rockets  and  shaking  the  air 
with  powder  explosions,  in  order  that  the  river  may 
be  continually  en  fete. 

At  half-past  eight  the  steamer  rounded  into  view 
of  the  hotels  and  cottages  at  Alexandria  Bay,  and  the 
enchanting  scene  drew  all  the  passengers  to  the  deck. 
The  Thousand  Islands  Hotel,  and  the  Grossman  House, 
where  our  party  found  excellent  accommodations,  were 
blazing  and  sparkling  like  the  spectacular  palaces  in 
an  opera  scene.  Rows  of  colored  lamps  were  set 
thickly  along  the  shore,  and  disposed  everywhere 
among  the  rocks  on  which  the  Grossman  House 
stands ;  lights  glistened  from  all  the  islands,  from  a 
thousand  row-boats,  and  in  all  the  windows.  It  was 
very  like  Venice,  seen  from  the  lagoon,  when  the  Ital- 
ians make  a  gala-night. 

If  Alexandria  Bay  was  less  enchanting  as  a  spec- 
tacle by  daylight,  it  was  still  exceedingly  lovely  and 
picturesque;  islands  and  bays  and  winding  water- 
ways could  not  be  better  combined  for  beauty,  and 
the  structures  that  taste  or  ambition  has  raised  on  the 
islands  or  rocky  points!  are  well  enough  in  keeping 
with  the  general  holiday  aspect.  One  of  the  prettiest 
of  these  cottages  is  the  Bonnicastle  of  the  late  Dr. 
Holland,  whose  spirit  more  or  less  pervades  this  re- 
gion. It  is  charmingly  situated  on  a  projecting  point 
of  gray  rocks  veined  with  color,  enlivened  by  touches 
of  scarlet  bushes  and  brilliant  flowers  planted  in  little 
spots  of  soil,  contrasting  with  the  evergreen  shrubs. 


-V. 


i    ;  « 

[tr  t  i.   iL  ^UyMM       .. 


326  Their  Pilgrimage. 

It  commands  a  varied  and  delicious  prospect,  and  has 
an  air  of  repose  and  peace. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  while  Forbes  and  Miss  La- 
mont  floated,  so  to  speak,  in  all  this  beauty,  like  the 
light-hearted  revellers  they  were,  King  was  scarcely 
in  a  mood  to  enjoy  it.  It  seemed  to  him  fictitious 
and  a  little  forced.  There  was  no  message  for  him 
at  the  Grossman  House.  His  restlessness  and  absent- 
mindedness  could  not  escape  the  observation  of  Mrs. 
Farquhar,  and  as  the  poor  fellow  sadly  needed  a  con- 
fidante, she  was  soon  in  possession  of  his  story. 

"  I  hate  slang,"  she  said,  when  he  had  painted  the 
situation  black  enough  to  suit  Mrs.  Bartlett  Glow  even, 
"and  I  will  not  give  my  sex  away,  but  I  know  some- 
thing of  feminine  doubtings  and  subterfuges,  and  I 
give  you  my  judgment  that  Irene  is  just  fretting  her- 
self to  death,  and  praying  that  you  may  have  the  spirit 
to  ride  rough-shod  over  her  scruples.  Yes,  it  is  just 
as  true  in  this  prosaic  time  as  it  ever  was,  that  women 
like  to  be  carried  off  by  violence.  In  their  secret 
hearts,  whatever  they  may  say,  they  like  to  see  a  knight 
batter  down  the  tower  and  put  all  the  garrison  except 
themselves  to  the  sword.  I  know  that  I  ought  to  be 
on  Mrs.  Glow's  side.  It  is  the  sensible  side,  the  pru- 
dent side;  but  I  do  admire  recklessness  in  love.  Prob- 
ably you'll  be  uncomfortable,  perhaps  unhappy — you 
are  certain  to  be  if  you  marry  to  please  society  and  not 
yourself — but  better  a  thousand  times  one  wild  rush 
of  real  passion,  of  self-forgetting  love,  than  an  age  of 
stupid,  conventional  affection  approved  by  your  aunt. 
Oh,  these  calculating  young  people  !"  Mrs.  Farquhar's 
voice  trembled  and  her  eyes  flashed.  "  I  tell  you,  my 


Their  Pilgrimage.  327 

friend,  life  is  not  worth  living  in  a  conventional  stag- 
nation. You  see  in  society  how  nature  revenges  itself 
when  its  instincts  are  repressed." 

Mrs.  Farquhar  turned  away,  and  King  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  stood  a  moment  looking 
away  over  the  sparkling  water  to  the  soft  islands  on 
the  hazy  horizon.  Was  she  thinking  of  her  own  mar- 
riage? Death  had  years  ago  dissolved  it,  and  were 
these  tears,  not  those  of  mourning,  but  for  the  great 
experience  possible  in  life,  so  seldom  realized,  missed 
forever?  Before  King  could  frame,  in  the  tumult  of 
his  own  thoughts,  any  reply,  she  turned  towards  him 
again,  with  her  usual  smile,  half  of  badinage  and  half 
of  tenderness,  and  said, 

"  Come,  this  is  enough  of  tragedy  for  one  day;  let 
us  go  on  the  Island  Wanderer,  with  the  other  excur- 
sionists, among  the  isles  of  the  blest." 

The  little  steamer  had  already  its  load,  and  present- 
ly was  under  way,  puffing  and  coughing,  on  its  usual 
afternoon  trip  among  the  islands.  The  passengers 
were  silent,  and  appeared  to  take  the  matter  seriously 
— a  sort  of  linen -duster  congregation,  of  the  class  who 
figure  in  the  homely  dialect  poems  of  the  Northern 
bards,  Mrs.  Farquhar  said.  They  were  chiefly  inter- 
ested in  knowing  the  names  of  the  successful  people 
who  had  built  these  fantastic  dwellings,  and  who  lived 
on  illuminations.  Their  curiosity  was  easily  gratified, 
for  in  most  cases  the  owners  had  painted  their  names, 
and  sometimes  tbeir  places  of  residence,  in  staring 
white  letters  on  conspicuous  rocks.  There  was  also 
exhibited,  for  the  benefit  of  invalids,  by  means  of  the 
same  white  paint,  here  and  there  the  name  of  a  medi- 


"A  SORT  OF  LINEN-DUSTER  CONGREGATION." 

cine  that  is  a  household  word  in  this  patent-right  gen- 
eration. So  the  little  steamer  sailed,  comforted  by 
these  remedies,  through  the  strait  of  Safe  Nervine, 
round  the  bluff  of  Safe  Toniq,  into  the  open  bay  of 
Safe  Liver  Cure.  It  was  a  healing  voyage,  and  one  in 
which  enterprise  was  so  allied  with  beauty  that  no 
utilitarian  philosopher  could  raise  a  question  as  to  the 
market  value  of  the  latter. 

The  voyage  continued  as  far  as  Gananoque,  in  Can- 
ada, where  the  passengers  went  ashore,  and  wandered 
about  in  a  disconsolate  way  to  see  nothing.  King 


Their  Pilgrimage.  329 

said,  however,  that  he  was  more  interested  in  the  place 
than  in  any  other  he  had  seen,  because  there  was  noth- 
ing interesting  in  it ;  it  was  absolutely  without  char- 
acter, or  a  single  peculiarity  either  of  Canada  or  of  the 
United  States.  Indeed,  this  north  shore  seemed  to  all 
-the  party  rather  bleak  even  in  summer-time,  and  the 
quality  of  the  sunshine  thin. 

It  was,  of  course,  a  delightful  sail,  abounding  in 
charming  views,  up  "  lost  channels,"  through  vistas  of 
gleaming  water  overdrooped  by  tender  foliage,  and  now 
and  then  great  stretches  of  sea,  and  always  islands, 
islands. 

"  Too  many  islands  too  much  alike,"  at  length  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Farquhar,  "  and  too  many  tasteless  cot- 
tages and  temporary  camping  structures." 

The  performance  is,  indeed,  better  than  the  prospec- 
tus. For  there  are  not  merely  the  poetical  Thousand 
Islands;  by  actual  count  there  are  sixteen  hundred  and 
ninety-two.  The  artist  and  Miss  Lamont  were  trying 
to  sing  a  fine  song  they  discovered  in  the  Traveller's 
Guide,  inspired  perhaps  by  that  sentimental  ditty, 
"  The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece,"  beginning, 
"  0  Thousand  Isles  !  0  Thousand  Isles  !" 

It  seemed  to  King  that  a  poem  might  be  constructed 
more  in  accordance  with  the  facts  and  with  the  scien- 
tific spirit  of  the  age.  Something  like  this: 

"  0  Sixteen  Hundred  Ninety-two  Isles  ! 

0  Islands  1692 ! 
Where  the  fisher  spreads  his  wiles, 

And  the  muskallonge  goes  through  ! 
Forever  the  cottager  gilds  the  same 

With  nightly  pyrotechnic  flame ; 
And  it's  0  the  Isles  ! 

The  1692 !" 


330  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Aside  from  the  pyrotechnics,  the  chief  occupations 
of  this  place  are  boating  and  fishing.  Boats  abound — 
row-boats,  sail-boats,  and  steam-launches  for  excursion 
parties.  The  river  consequently  presents  an  animated 
appearance  in  the  season,  and  the  prettiest  effects  are 
produced  by  the  white  sails  dipping  about  among  the 
green  islands.  The  favorite  boat  is  a  canoe  with  a  small 
sail  stepped  forward,  which  is  steered  without  centre- 
board or  rudder,  merely  by  a  change  of  position  in  the 
boat  of  the  man  who  holds  the  sheet.  While  the  fish- 
ermen are  here,  it  would  seem  that  the  long,  snaky 
pickerel  is  the  chief  game  pursued  and  caught.  But 
this  is  not  the  case  when  the  fishermen  return  home, 
for  then  it  appears  that  they  have  been  dealing  mainly 
with  muskallonge,  and  with  bass  by  the  way.  No 
other  part  of  the  country  originates  so  many  excellent 
fish  stories  as  the  Sixteen  Hundred  and  Ninety-two 
Islands,  and  King  had  heard  so  many  of  them  that  he 
suspected  there  must  be  fish  in  these  waters.  That 
afternoon,  when  they  returned  from  Gananoque,  he 
accosted  an  old  fisherman  who  sat  in  his  boat  at  the 
wharf  awaiting  a  customer. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  fishing  here  in  the  season  ?" 

The  man  glanced  up,  but  deigned  no  reply  to  such 
impertinence. 

"  Could  you  take  us  where  we  would  be  likely  to 
get  any  muskallonge?" 

"  Likely  ?"  asked  the  man.  "  What  do  you  suppose 
I  am  here  for  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  a  stranger  here.  I'd  like 
to  try  my  hand  at  a  muskallonge.  About  how  do  they 
run  here  as  to  size  ?" 


A  FISHERMAN. 


332  Their  Pilgrimage. 

"  Well,"  said  the  fisherman,  relenting  a  little,  "  that 
depends  upon  who  takes  you  out.  If  you  want  a  little 
sport,  I  can  take  you  to  it.  They  are  running  pretty 
well  this  season,  or  were  a  week  ago." 

"  Is  it  too  late  ?" 

"  Well,  they  are  scarcer  than  they  were,  unless  you 
know  where  to  go.  I  call  forty  pounds  light  for  a 
muskallonge  ;  fifty  to  seventy  is  about  my  figure.  If 
you  ain't  used  to  this 'kind  of  fishing,  and  go  with  me, 
you'd  better  tie  yourself  in  the  boat.  They  are  a 
powerful  fish.  You  see  that  little  island  yonder  ?  A 
muskallonge  dragged  me  in  this  boat  four  times  round 
that  island  one  day,  and  just  as  I  thought  I  was  tiring 
him  out  he  jumped  clean  over  the  island,  and  I  had  to 
cut  the  line." 

King  thought  he  had  heard  something  like  this  be- 
fore, and  he  engaged  the  man  for  the  next  day.  That 
evening  was  the  last  of  the  grand  illuminations  for  the 
season,  and  our  party  went  out  in  the  Grossman  steam- 
launch  to  see  it.  Although  some  of  the  cottages  were 
vacated,  and  the  display  was  not  so  extensive  as  in 
August,  it  was  still  marvellously  beautiful,  and  the 
night  voyage  around  the  illuminated  islands  was  some- 
thing long  to  be  remembered.  There  were  endless 
devices  of  colored  lamps  and  lanterns,  figures  of 
crosses,  crowns,  the  Seal  of  Solomon,  and  the  most 
strange  effects  produced  on  foliage  and  in  the  water 
by  red  and  green  and  purple  fires.  It  was  a  night  of 
enchantment,  and  the  hotel  and  its  grounds  on  the 
dark  background  of  the  night  were  like  the  stately 
pleasure-house  in  "  Kubla  Khan." 
.  But  the  season  was  drawing  to  an  end.  The  hotels, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  333 

which  could  not  find  room  for  the  throngs  on  Satur- 
day night,  say,  were  nearly  empty  on  Monday,  so  easy 
are  pleasure-seekers  frightened  away  by  a  touch  of 
cold,  forgetting  that  in  such  a  resort  the  most  enjoy- 
able part  of  the  year  comes  with  the  mellow  autumn 
days.  That  night  at  ten  o'clock  the  band  was  scrap- 
ing away  in  the  deserted  parlor,  with  not  another  per- 
son in  attendance,  without  a  single  listener.  Miss 
Lamont  happened  to  peep  through  the  window-blinds 
from  the  piazza  and  discover  this  residuum  of  gayety. 
The  band  itself  was  half  asleep,  but  by  sheer  force  of 
habit  it  kept  on,  the  fiddlers  drawing  the  perfunctory 
bows,  and  the  melancholy  clarionet  men  breathing 
their  expressive  sighs.  It  was  a  dismal  sight.  The 
next  morning  the  band  had  vanished. 

The  morning  was  lowering,  and  a  steady  rain  soon 
set  in  for  the  day.  No  fishing,  no  boating  ;  nothing 
but  drop,  drop,  and  the  reminiscence  of  past  pleasure. 
Mist  enveloped  the  islands  and  shut  out  the  view. 
Even  the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Farquhar  were  not  proof 
against  this,  and  she  tried  to  amuse  herself  by  recon- 
structing the  season  out  of  the  specimens  of  guests 
who  remained,  who  were  for  the  most  part  young 
ladies  who  had  duty  written  on  their  faces,  and  were 
addicted  to  spectacles. 

"It  could  not  have  been,"  she  thought,  "ultra- 
fashionable  or  madly  gay.  I  think  the  good  people 
come  here;  those  who  are  willing  to  illuminate." 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  fast  enough  life  at  some  of  the  hotels 
in  the  summer,"  said  the  artist. 

"  Very  likely.  Still,  if  I  were  recruiting  for  school- 
marms,  I  should  come  here.  I  like  it  thoroughly,  and 


334  Their  Pilgrimage. 

mean  to  be  here  earlier  next  year.  The  scenery  is  en- 
chanting, and  I  quite  enjoy  being  with  *  Proverbial 
Philosophy '  people." 

Late  in  the  gloomy  afternoon  King  went  down  to 
the  office,  and  the  clerk  handed  him  a  letter.  He 
took  it  eagerly,  but  his  countenance  fell  when  he  saw 
that  it  bore  a  New  York  post-mark,  and  had  been 
forwarded  from  Richfield.  It  was  not  from  Irene. 
He  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  went  moodily  to  his 
room.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  read  a  homily  from  his 
uncle. 

Ten  minutes  after,  he  burst  into  Forbes's  room  with 
the  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  See  here,  old  fellow,  I'm  off  to  the  Profile  House. 
Can  you  get  ready  ?" 

"Get  ready?  Why,  you  can't  go  anywhere  to- 
night." 

"  Yes,  I  can.  The  proprietor  says  he  will  send  us 
across  to  Redwood  to  catch  the  night  train  for  Ogdens- 
burg." 

"  But  how  about  the  Lachine  Rapids  ?  You  have 
been  talking  about  those  rapids  for  two  months.  I 
thought  that  was  what  we  came  here  for." 

"  Do  you  want  to  run  right'  into  the  small-pox  at 
Montreal?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind.  I  never  take  anything  of  that 
sort." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  it  isn't  safe  for  the  Lamonts 
and  Mrs.  Farquhar  to  go  there  ?" 

"  I  suppose  not;  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  have 
dragged  me  all  over  the  continent,  and  I  didn't  sup- 
pose there  was  any  way  of  escaping  the  rapids.  But 


Their  Pilgrimage.  335 

what  is  the  row  now?     Has  Irene  telegraphed  you 
that  she  has  got  over  her  chill  ?" 

"  Read  that  letter." 

Forbes  took  the  sheet  and  read: 

"NEW  YORK,  September  2,  1885. 

"Mr  DEAR  STANHOPE, — We  came  back  to  town 
yesterday,  and  I  find  a  considerable  arrears  of  business 
demanding  my  attention.  A  suit  has  been  brought 
against  the  Lavalle  Iron  Company,  of  which  I  have 
been  the  attorney  for  some  years,  for  the  possession 
of  an  important  part  of  its  territory,  and  I  must  send 
somebody  to  Georgia  before  the  end  of  this  month  to 
look  up  witnesses  and  get  ready  for  the  defence.  If 
you  are  through  your  junketing  by  that  time,  it  will 
be  an  admirable  opportunity  for  you  to  learn  the 
practical  details  of  the  business.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  may 
quicken  your  ardor  in  the  matter  if  I  communicate  to 
you  another  fact.  Penelope  wrote  me  from  Richfield, 
in  a  sort  of  panic,  that  she  feared  you  had  compro- 
mised your  whole  future  by  a  rash  engagement  with 
a  young  lady  from  Cyrusville,  Ohio — a  Miss  Benson — 
and  she  asked  me  to  use  my  influence  with  you.  I  re- 
plied to  her  that  I  thought  that,  in  the  language  of  the 
street,  you  had  compromised  your  future,  if  that  were 
true,  for  about  a  hundred  cents  on  the  dollar.  I  have 
had  business  relations  with  Mr.  Benson  for  twenty 
years.  He  is  the  principal  owner  in  the  Lavalle  Iron 
Mine,  and  he  is  one  of  the  most  sensible,  sound,  and 
upright  men  of  my  acquaintance.  He  comes  of  a  good 
old  New  England  stock,  and  if  his  daughter  has  the 
qualities  of  her  father — and  I  hear  that  she  has  been 


336  Their  Pilgrimage. 

exceedingly  well  educated  besides — she  is  not  a  bad 
match  even  for  a  Knickerbocker. 

"  Hoping  that  you  will  be  able  to  report  at  the  of- 
fice before  the  end  of  the  month, 

"  I  am  affectionately  yours, 

"ScHUYLER  BEEVOOBT." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  artist,  after  a  pause. 
"  I  suppose  the  world  might  get  on  if  you  spend  an- 
other night  in  this  hotel.  But  if  you  must  go,  I'll 
bring  on  the  women  and  the  baggage  when  navigation 
opens  in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  White  Mountains  are  as  high  as  ever,  as  fine 
in  sharp  outline  against  the  sky,  as  savage,  as  tawny; 
no  other  mountains  in  the  world  of  their  height  so 
well  keep,  on  acquaintance,  the  respect  of  mankind. 
There  is  a  quality  of  refinement  in-  their  granite  ro- 
bustness ;  their  desolate,  bare  heights  and  sky-scrap- 
ing ridges  are  rosy  in  the  dawn  and  violet  at  sunset, 
and  their  profound  green  gulfs  are  still  mysterious. 
Powerful  as  man  is,  and  pushing,  he  cannot  wholly 
vulgarize  them.  He  can  reduce  the  valleys  and  the 
show  "  freaks  "  of  nature  to  his  own  moral  level,  but 
the  vast  bulks  and  the  summits  remain  for  the  most 
part  haughty  and  pure. 

Yet  undeniably  something  of  the  romance  of  adven- 
ture in  a  visit  to  the  White  Hills  is  wanting,  now  that 
the  railways  penetrate  every  valley,  and  all  the  phys- 
ical obstacles  of  the  journey  are  removed.  One  can 
never  again  feel  the  thrill  that  he  experienced  when, 
after  a  weary  all-day  jolting  in  the  stage-coach,  or 
plodding  hour  after  hour  on  foot,  he  suddenly  came 
in  view  of  a  majestic  granite  peak.  Never  again  by 
the  new  rail  can  he  have  the  sensation  that  he  enjoyed 
in  the  ascent  of  Mount  Washington  by  the  old  bridle- 
path from  Crawford's,  when,  climbing  out  of  the 
woods  and  advancing  upon  that  marvellous  backbone 
of  rock,  the  whole  world  opened  upon  his  awed  vision, 
22 


A  HALT  FOR  THE   VIEW. 

and  the  pyramid  of  the  summit  stood  up  in  majesty 
against  the  sky.  Nothing,  indeed,  is  valuable  that  is 
easily  obtained.  This  modern  experiment  of  putting 
us  through  the  world — the  world  of  literature,  expe- 
rience, and  travel  —  at  excursion  rates  is  of  doubtful 
expediency. 


Their  Pilgrimage.  339 

I  cannot  but  think  that  the  White  Mountains  are 
cheapened  a  little  by  the  facilities  of  travel  and  the 
multiplication   of  excellent  places  of   entertainment. 
If  scenery  were  a  sentient  thing,  it  might  feel  indig- 
nant at  being  vulgarly  stared  at,  overrun  and  trampled 
on,  by  a  horde  of  tourists  who  chiefly  value  luxurious 
hotels  and  easy  conveyance.      It  would  be  mortified 
to  hear  the  talk  of  the  excursionists,  which  is  more 
about  the  quality  of  the  tables  and  the  beds,  and  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  "  whole  thing  can  be  done," 
than  about  the  beauty  and  the  sublimity  of  nature. 
The  mountain,  however,  was  made  for  man,  and  not 
man  for  the  mountain  ;  and  if  the  majority  of  travel- 
lers only  get  out  of  these  hills  what  they  are  capable 
of  receiving,  it  may  be  some  satisfaction  to  the  hills 
that  they  still  reserve  their  glories  for  the  eyes  that 
can  appreciate  them.     Perhaps  nature  is  not  sensitive 
about  being  run  after  for  its  freaks  and  eccentricities. 
If  it  were,  we  could  account  for  the  catastrophe,  a  few 
years  ago,  in  the  Franconia  Notch  flume.     Everybody 
went  there  to  see  a  bowlder  which  hung  suspended 
over  the  stream  in  the  narrow  canon.     This  curiosity 
attracted  annually  thousands  of  people,  who  apparent- 
ly cared  more  for  this  toy  than  for  anything  else  in 
the  region.     And  one  day,  as  if  tired  of  this  misdi- 
rected adoration,  nature  organized  a  dam  on  the  side 
of  Mount  Lafayette,  filled  it  with  water,  and  then  sud- 
denly let  loose  a  flood  which  tore  open  the  canon,  car- 
ried the  bowlder  away,  and  spread  ruin  far  and  wide. 
It  said  as  plainly  as  possible,  You  must  look  at  me, 
and  not  at  my  trivial  accidents.     But  man  is  an  inge- 
nious creature,  and  nature  is  no  match  for  him.     He 


340  Their  Pilgrimage. 

now  goes,  in  increasing  number,  to  see  where  the  bowl- 
der once  hung,  and  spends  his  time  in  hunting  for  it 
in  the  acres  of  wreck  and  debris.  And  in  order  to 
satisfy  reasonable  human  curiosity,  the  proprietors  of 
the  flume  have  been  obliged  to  select  a  bowlder  and 
label  it  as  the  one  that  was  formerly  the  shrine  of  pil- 
grimage. 

In  his  college  days  King  had  more  than  once  tramped 
all  over  this  region,  knapsack  on  back,  lodging  at 
chance  farmhouses  and  second-class  hotels,  living  on 
viands  that  would  kill  any  but  a  robust  climber,  and 
enjoying  the  life  with  a  keen  zest  only  felt  by  those 
who  are  abroad  at  all  hours,  and  enabled  to  surprise 
Nature  in  all  her  varied  moods.  It  is  the  chance  en- 
counters that  are  most  satisfactory;  Nature  is  apt  to 
be  whimsical  to  him  who  approaches  her  of  set  pur- 
pose at  fixed  hours.  He  remembered  also  the  jolting 
stage-coaches,  the  scramble  for  places,  the  exhilaration 
of  the  drive,  the  excitement  of  the  arrival  at  the  hotels, 
the  sociability  engendered  by  this  juxtaposition  and 
jostle  of  travel.  It  was  therefore  with  a  sense  of  per- 
sonal injury  that,  when  he  reached  Bethlehem  Junc- 
tion, he  found  a  railway  to  the  Profile  House,  and  an- 
other to  Bethlehem.  In  the  interval  of  waiting  for 
his  train  he  visited  Bethlehem  Street,  with  its  mile 
of  caravansaries,  big  boarding-houses,  shops,  and  city 
veneer,  and  although  he  was  delighted,  as  an  Ameri- 
can, with  the  "  improvements "  and  with  the  air  of 
refinement,  he  felt  that  if  he  wanted  retirement  and 
rural  life,  he  might  as  well  be  with  the  hordes  in  the 
depths  of  the  Adirondack  wilderness.  But  in  his  im- 
patience to  reach  his  destination  he  was  not  sorry 


Their  Pilgrimage.  341 

to  avail  himself  of  the  railway  to  the  Profile  House. 
And  he  admired  the  ingenuity  which  had  carried  this 
road  through  nine  miles  of  shabby  firs  and  balsams, 
in  a  way  absolutely  devoid  of  interest,  in  order  to 
heighten  the  effect  of  the  surprise  at  the  end  in  the 
sudden  arrival  at  the  Franconia  Notch.  From  which- 
ever way  this  vast  white  hotel  establishment  is  ap- 
proached, it  is  always  a  surprise.  Midway  between 
Echo  Lake  and  Profile  Lake,  standing  in  the  very 
jaws  of  the  Notch,  overhung  on  the  one  side  by  Can- 
non Mountain  and  on  the  other  by  a  bold  spur  of  La- 
fayette, it  makes  a  contrast  between  the  elegance  and 
order  of  civilization  and  the  untouched  ruggedness 
and  sublimity  of  nature  scarcely  anywhere  else  to  be 
seen. 

The  hotel  was  still  full,  and  when  King  entered  the 
great  lobby  and  office  in  the  evening  a  very  animated 
scene  met  his  eye.  A  big  fire  of  logs  was  blazing  in 
the  ample  chimney-place  ;  groups  were  seated  about 
at  ease,  chatting,  reading,  smoking ;  couples  prome- 
naded up  and  down  ;  and  from  the  distant  parlor, 
through  the  long  passage,  came  the  sound  of  the 
band.  It  was  easy  to  see  at  a  glance  that  the  place 
had  a  distinct  character,  freedom  from  conventional- 
ity, and  an  air  of  reposeful  enjoyment.  A  large  pro- 
portion of  the  assembly  being  residents  for  the  sum- 
mer, there  wsfis  so  much  of  the  family  content  that  the 
transient  tourists  could  little  disturb  it  by  the  intro- 
duction of  their  element  of  worry  and  haste. 

King  found  here  many  acquaintances,  for  fashion 
follows  a  certain  routine,  and  there  is  a  hidden  law  by 
which  the  White  Mountains  break  the  transition  from 


34:2  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  sea-coast  to  Lenox.  He  was  therefore  not  sur- 
prised to  be  greeted  by  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  who  had  ar- 
rived the  day  before  with  her  usual  train. 

"At  the  end  of  the  season,"  she  said,  "and  alone?" 

"I  expect  to  meet  friends  here." 

"  So  did  I ;  but  they  have  gone,  or  some  of  them 
have." 

"  But  mine  are  coming  to  -  morrow.  Who  has 
gone  !" 

"  Mrs.  Pendragon  and  the  Bensons.  But  I  didn't 
suppose  I  could  tell  you  any  news  about  the  Bensons." 

"  I  have  been  out  of  the  way  of  the  newspapers  late- 
ly. Did  you  happen  to  hear  where  they  have  gone  ?" 

"  Somewhere  around  the  mountains.  You  need  not 
look  so  indifferent ;  they  are  coming  back  here  again. 
They  are  doing  what  I  must  do  ;  and  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  what  to  see.  I  have  studied  the  guide-books 
till  my  mind  is  a  blank.  Where  shall  I  go  ?" 

"  That  depends.  If  you  simply  want  to  enjoy  your- 
selves, stay  at  this  hotel — there  is  no  better  place — sit 
on  the  piazza,  look  at  the  mountains,  and  watch  the 
world  as  it  comes  round.  If  you  want  the  best  pano- 
ramic view  of  the  mountains,  the  Washington  and 
Lafayette  ranges  together,  go  up  to  the  Waumbec 
House.  If  you  are  after  the  best  single  limited  view 
in  the  mountains,  drive  up  to  the  top  of  Mount  Wil- 
lard,  near  the  Crawford  House — a  delightful  place  to 
stay  in  a  region  full  of  associations,  Willey  House, 
avalanche,  and  all  that.  If  you  would  like  to  take  a 
walk  you  will  remember  forever,  go  by  the  carriage 
road  from  the  top  of  Mount  Washington  to  the  Glen 
House,  and  look  into  the  great  gulfs,  and  study  the 


Their  Pilgrimage.  343 

tawny  sides  of  the  mountains.  I  don't  know  anything 
more. impressive  hereabouts  than  that.  Close  to,  those 
granite  ranges  have  the  color  of  the  hide  of  the  rhi- 
noceros ;  when  you  look  up  to  them  from  the  Glen 
House,  shouldering  up  into  the  sky,  and  rising  to  the 
cloud-capped  summit  of  Washington,  it  is  like  a  pur- 
ple highway  into  the  infinite  heaven.  No,  you  must 
not  miss  either  Crawford's  or  the  Glen  House;  and  as 
to  Mount  Washington,  that  is  a  duty." 

"  You  might  personally  conduct  us  and  expound  by 
the  way." 

King  said  he  would  like  nothing  better.  Inquiry 
failed  to  give  him  any  more  information  of  the  wher- 
abouts  of  the  Bensons;  but  the  clerk  said  they  were 
certain  to  return  to  the  Profile  House.  The  next  day 
the  party  which  had  been  left  behind  at  Alexandria 
Bay  appeared,  in  high  spirits,  and  ready  for  any  ad- 
venture. Mrs.  Farquhar  declared  at  once  that  she 
had  no  scruples  about  going  up  Washington,  common- 
place as  the  trip  was,  for  her  sympathies  were  now  all 
with  the  common  people.  Of  course  Mount  Washing- 
ton was  of  no  special  importance,  now  that  the  Black 
Mountains  were  in  the  Union,  but  she  hadn't  a  bit  of 
prejudice. 

King  praised  her  courage  and  her  patriotism.  But 
perhaps  she  did  not  know  how  much  she  risked.  He 
had  been  talking  with  some  habitues  of  the  Profile, 
who  had  been  coming  here  for  years,  and  had  just 
now  for  the  first  time  been  up  Mount  Washington,  and 
they  said  that  while  the  trip  was  pleasant  enough,  it 
did  not  pay  for  the  exertion.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Farquhar 
did  not  know  that  mountain-climbing  was  disapproved 


344:  Their  Pilgrimage. 

of  here  as  sea-bathing  was  at  Newport.  It  was  hardly 
the  thing  one  would  like  to  do,  except,  of  course.,  as  a 
mere  lark,  and,  don't  you  know,  with  a  party. 

Mrs.  Farquhar  said  that  was  just  the  reason  she 
wanted  to  go.  She  was  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice; 
she  considered  herself  just  a  missionary  of  provincial- 
ism up  North,  where  people  had  become  so  cosmopoli- 
tan that  they  dared  not  enjoy  anything.  She  was  an 
enemy  of  the  Boston  philosophy.  What  is  the  Boston 
philosophy?  Why,  it  is  not  to  care  about  anything 
you  do  care  about. 

The  party  that  was  arranged  for  this  trip  included 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  her  bevy  of  beauty  and  audacity, 
Miss  Lament  and  her  uncle,  Mrs.  Farquhar,  the  artist, 
and  the  desperate  pilgrim  of  love.  Mrs.  Farquhar 
vowed  to  Forbes  that  she  had  dragged  King  along  at 
the  request  of  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  who  did  not 
like  to  send  a  guest  away,  but  he  couldn't  have  all  the 
trees  at  Profile  Lake  disfigured  with  his  cutting  and 
carving.  People  were  running  to  him  all  the  while  to 
know  what  it  meant  with  "I.  B.,"  "I.B.,"  "I.  B.," 
everywhere,  like  a  grove  of  Baal. 

From  the  Junction  to  Fabyan's  they  rode  in  an  ob- 
servation car,  all  open,  and  furnished  with  movable 
chairs,  where  they  sat  as  in  a  balcony.  It  was  a  pict- 
uresque load  of  passengers.  There  were  the  young 
ladies  in  trim  travelling-suits,  in  what  is  called  com- 
pact fighting  trim;  ladies  in  mourning;  ladies  in  win- 
ter wraps;  ladies  in  Scotch  wraps;  young  men  with 
shawl-straps  and  opera-glasses,  standing,  legs  astride, 
consulting  maps  and  imparting  in  formation;  the  usual 
sweet  pale  girl  with  a  bundle  of  cat-tails,  and  a  decora- 


THE  OBSERVATION  CAR. 

tive  intention;  and  the  nonchalant  young  man  in  a 
striped  English  boating  cap,  who  nevertheless  spoke 
American  when  he  said  anything. 

As  they  were  swinging  slowly-along  the  engine  sud- 
denly fell  into  a  panic,  puffing  and  sending  up  shrill 
shrieks  of  fear  in  rapid  succession.  There  was  a  se- 
date cow  on  the  track.  The  engine  was  agitated,  it 
shrieked  more  shrilly,  and  began  backing  in  visible  ter- 
ror. Everybody  jumped  and  stood  up,  and  the  wom- 
en clung  to  the  men,  all  frightened.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful exhibition  of  the  sweet  dependence  of  the  sex  in  the 


346  Their  Pilgrimage. 

hour  of  danger.  The  cow  was  more  terrible  than  a 
lion  on  the  track.  The  passengers  all  trembled  like 
the  engine.  In  fact,  the  only  calm  being  was  the  cow, 
which,  after  satisfying  her  curiosity,  walked  slowly 
off,  wondering  what  it  was  all  about. 

The  cog-wheel  railway  is  able  to  transport  a  large 
number  of  excursionists  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  in 
the  course  of  the  morning.  The  tourists  usually  ar- 
rive there  about  the  time  the  mist  has  crept  up  from 
the  valleys  and  enveloped  everything.  Our  party  had 
the  common  experience.  The  Summit  House,  the 
Signal  Station,  the  old  Tip-top  House,  which  is  lashed 
down  with  cables,  and  rises  ten  feet  higher  than  the 
highest  crag,  were  all  in  the  clouds.  Nothing  was  to 
be  seen  except  the  dim  outline  of  these  buildings. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Farquhar,  as  they  stumbled 
along  over  the  slippery  stones,  "what  people  come 
here  for." 

"  Just  what  we  came  for,"  answered  Forbes — "  to 
say  they  have  been  on  top  of  the  mountain." 

They  took  refuge  in  the  hotel,  but  that  also  was  in- 
vaded by  the  damp,  chill  atmosphere,  wrapped  in  and 
pervaded  by  the  clouds.  From  the  windows  nothing 
more  was  to  be  seen  than  is  visible  in  a  Russian  steam 
bath.  But  the  tourists  did  not  mind.  They  addressed 
themselves  to  the  business  in  hand.  This  was  regis- 
tering their  names.  A  daily  newspaper  called  Among 
the  Clouds  is  published  here,  and  every  person  who 
gets  his  name  on  the  register  in  time  can  see  it  in 
print  before  the  train  goes.  When  the  train  descends 
every  passenger  has  one  of  these  two-cent  certificates 
of  his  exploit.  When  our  party  entered,  there  was  a 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


347 


great  run  on  the  register,  especially  by  women,  who 
have  a  repugnance,  as  is  well  known,  to  seeing  their 
names  in  print.  In  the  room  was  a  hot  stove,  which 
was  more  attractive  than  the  cold  clouds,  but  unable 
to  compete  in  interest  with  the  register.  The  artist, 
who  seemed  to  be  in  a  sardonic  mood,  and  could  get 
no  chance  to  enter  his  name,  watched  the  scene,  while 
his  friends  enjoyed  the  view  of  the  stove.  After  reg- 
istering, the  visitors  all  bought  note-paper  with  a 


AN    EPISTLE  FROM  THE   SUMMIT. 


348  Their  Pilgrimage. 

chromo  heading,  "Among  the  Clouds,"  and  a  natural 
wild-flower  stuck  on  the  corner,  and  then  rushed  to 
the  writing-room  in  order  to  indite  an  epistle  "  from 
the  summit."  This  is  indispensable. 

After  that  they  were  ready  for  the  Signal  Station. 
This  is  a  great  attraction.  The  sergeant  in  charge 
looked  bored  to  death,  and  in  the  mood  to  predict  the 
worst  kind  of  weather.  He  is  all  day  beset  with  a 
crowd  craning  their  necks  to  look  at  him,  and  bothered 
with  ten  thousand  questions.  He  told  King  that  the 
tourists  made  his  life  miserable  ;  they  were  a  great 
deal  worse  than  the  blizzards  in  the  winter.  And  the 
government,  he  said,  does  not  take  this  into  account 
in  his  salary. 

Occasionally  there  was  an  alarm  that  the  mist  was 
getting  thin,  that  the  clouds  were  about  to  break,  and 
a  rush  was  made  out-of-doors,  and  the  tourists  dis- 
persed about  on  the  rocks.  They  were  all  on  the  qui 
vive  to  see  the  hotel  or  the  boarding-house  they  had 
left  in  the  early  morning.  Excursionists  continually 
swarmed  in  by  rail  or  by  carriage  road.  The  artist, 
who  had  one  of  his  moods  for  wanting  to  see  nature, 
said  there  were  too  many  women;  he  wanted  to  know 
why  there  were  always  so  many  women  on  excursions. 
"You  can  see  nothing  but  excursionists;  whichever 
way  you  look,  you  see  their  backs."  These  backs, 
looming  out  of  the  mist,  or  discovered  in  a  rift,  seemed 
to  enrage  him. 

At  length  something  actually  happened.  The  cur- 
tain of  cloud  slowly  lifted,  exactly  as  in  a  theatre;  for 
a  moment  there  was  a  magnificent  view  of  peaks,  for- 
ests, valleys,  a  burst  of  sunshine  on  the  lost  world,  and 


fc  r 

V 


THE  CLOUDS  BREAKING. 

then  the  curtain  dropped,  amid  a  storm  of  "  Ohs  !"  and 
"  Ahs  !"  and  intense  excitement.  Three  or  four  times, 
as  if  in  response  to  the  call  of  the  spectators,  this  was 
repeated,  the  curtain  lifting  every  time  on  a  different 
scene,  and  then  it  was  all  over,  and  the  heavy  mist 
shut  down  on  the  registered  and  the  unregistered 
alike.  But  everybody  declared  that  they  preferred  it 


350  Their  Pilgrimage. 

this  way ;  it  was  so  much  better  to  have  these  wonder- 
ful glimpses  than  a  full  view.  They  would  go  down 
and  brag  over  their  good-fortune. 

The  excursionists  by  and  by  went  away  out  of  the 
clouds,  gliding  breathlessly  down  the  rails.  When 
snow  covers  this  track,  descent  is  sometimes  made  on 
a  toboggan,  but  it  is  such  a  dangerous  venture  that 
all  except  the  operatives  are  now  forbidden  to  try  it. 
The  velocity  attained  of  three  and  a  half  miles  in 
three  minutes  may  seem  nothing  to  a  locomotive  en- 
gineer who  is  making  up  time;  it  might  seem  slow  to 
a  lover  whose  sweetheart  was  at  the  foot  of  the  slide ; 
to  ordinary  mortals  a  mile  a  minute  is  quite  enough 
on  such  an  incline. 

Our  party,  who  would  have  been  much  surprised  if 
any  one  had  called  them  an  excursion,  went  away  on 
foot  down  the  carriage  road  to  the  Glen  House.  A 
descent  of  a  few  rods  took  them  into  the  world  of  light 
and  sun,  and  they  were  soon  beyond  the  little  piles  of 
stones  which  mark  the  spots  where  tourists  have  sunk 
down  bewildered  in  the  mist  and  died  of  exhaustion 
and  cold.  These  little  mounds  help  to  give  Mount 
Washington  its  savage  and  implacable  character.  It 
is  not  subdued  by  all  the  roads  and  rails  and  scientific 
forces.  For  days  it  may  lie  basking  and  smiling  in 
the  sun,  but  at  any  hour  it  is  liable  to  become  inhos- 
pitable and  pitiless,  and  for  a  good  part  of  the  year 
the  summit  is  the  area  of  elemental  passion. 

How  delightful  it  was  to  saunter  down  the  winding 
road  into  a  region  of  peace  and  calm;  to  see  from  the 
safe  highway  the  great  giants  in  all  their  majesty;  to 
come  to  vegetation,  to  the  company  of  familiar  trees, 


Their  Pilgrimage.  351 

and  the  haunts  of  men  !  As  they  reached  the  Glen 
House  all  the  line  of  rugged  mountain-peaks  was  vio- 
let in  the  reflected  rays.  There  were  people  on  the 
porch  who  were  looking  at  this  spectacle.  Among 
them  the  eager  eyes  of  King  recognized  Irene. 

"  Yes,  there  she  is,"  cried  Mrs.  Farquhar;  "  and 
there — oh,  what  a  treacherous  North — is  Mr.  Meigs 
also." 

It  was  true.  There  was  Mr.  Meigs  apparently  dom- 
iciled with  the  Benson  family.  There  might  have  been 
a  scene,  but  fortunately  the  porch  was  full  of  loun- 
gers looking  at  the  sunset,  and  other  pedestrians  in 
couples  and  groups  were  returning  from  afternoon 
strolls.  It  might  be  the  crisis  of  two  lives,  but  to  the 
spectator  nothing  more  was  seen  than  the  every-day 
meeting  of  friends  and  acquaintances.  A  couple  say 
good-night  at  the  door  of  a  drawing-room.  Nothing 
has  happened — nothing  except  a  look,  nothing  except 
the  want  of  pressure  of  the  hand.  The  man  lounges 
off  to  the  smoking-room,  cool  and  indifferent;  the 
woman,  in  her  chamber,  falls  into  a  passion  of  tears, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  wakeful  night  comes  into  a  new 
world,  hard  and  cold  and  uninteresting.  Or  the  reverse 
happens.  It  is  the  girl  who  tosses  the  thing  off  with 
a  smile,  perhaps  with  a  sigh,  as  the  incident  of  a  sea- 
son, while  the  man,  wounded  and  bitter,  loses  a  degree 
of  respect  for  woman,  and  pitches  his  life  henceforth 
on  a  lower  plane. 

In  the  space  of  ten  steps  King  passed  through  an 
age  of  emotions,  but  the  strongest  one  steadied  him. 
There  was  a  general  movement,  exclamations,  greet- 
ings, introductions.  King  was  detained  a  moment  by 


352  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benson  ;  he  even  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Meigs,  who  had  the  tact  to  turn  immediately  from 
the  group  and  talk  with  somebody  else  ;  while  Mrs. 
Farquhar  and  Miss  Lamont  and  Mrs.  Cortlandt  pre- 
cipitated themselves  upon  Irene  in  a  little  tempest  of 
cries  and  caresses  and  delightful  feminine  fluttering. 
Truth  to  say,  Irene  was  so  overcome  by  these  greet- 
ings that  she  had  not  the  strength  to  take  a  step  for- 
ward when  King  at  length  approached  her.  She  stood 
with  one  hand  grasping  the  back  of  the  chair.  She 
knew  that  that  moment  would  decide  her  life.  Noth- 
ing is  more  admirable  in  woman,  nothing  so  shows 
her  strength,  as  her  ability  to  face  in  public  such  a 
moment.  It  was  the  critical  moment  for  King — how 
critical  the  instant  was,  luckily,  he  did  not  then  know. 
If  there  had  been  in  his  eyes  any  doubt,  any  waver- 
ing, any  timidity,  his  cause  would  have  been  lost.  But 
there  was  not.  There  was  infinite  love  and  tender- 
ness, but  there  was  also  resolution,  confidence,  posses- 
sion, mastery.  There  was  that  that  would  neither  be 
denied  nor  turned  aside,  nor  accept  any  subterfuge. 
If  King  had  ridden  up  on  a  fiery  steed,  felled  Meigs 
with  his  "  mailed  hand,"  and  borne  away  the  fainting 
girl  on  his  saddle  pommel,  there  could  have  been  no 
more  doubt  of  his  resolute  intention.  In  that  look  all 
the  mists  of  doubt  that  her  judgment  had  raised  in 
Irene's  mind  to  obscure  love  vanished.  Her  heart 
within  her  gave  a  great  leap  of  exultation  that  her 
lover  was  a  man  strong  enough  to  compel,  strong 
enough  to  defend.  At  that  instant  she  knew  that  she 
could  trust  him  against  the  world.  In  that  moment, 
while  he  still  held  her  hand,  she  experienced  the  great- 


Their  Pilgrimage.  353 

est  joy  that  woman  ever  knows — the  bliss  of  absolute 
surrender. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  "  in  answer  to  your  letter. 
And  this  is  my  answer." 

She  had  it  in  his  presence,  and  read  it  in  his  eyes. 
\Vith  the  delicious  sense  thrilling  her  that  she  was  no 
longer  her  own  master  there  came  a  new  timidity. 
She  had  imagined  that  if  ever  she  should  meet  Mr. 
King  again,  she  should  defend  her  course,  and  perhaps 
appear  in  his  eyes  in  a  very  heroic  attitude.  Now  she 
only  said,  falteringly,  and  looking  down,  "  I — I  hoped 
you  would  come." 

That  evening  there  was  a  little  dinner  given  in  a 
private  parlor  by  Mr.  Benson  in  honor  of  the  engage- 
ment of  his  daughter.  It  was  great  larks  for  the  young 
ladies  whom  Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  chaperoning,  who  be- 
haved with  an  elaboration  of  restraint  and  propriety 
that  kept  Irene  in  a  flutter  of  uneasiness.  Mr.  Benson, 
in  mentioning  the  reason  for  the  "  little  spread,"  told 
the  story  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  sole  response  to  Lord 
Lyons,  the  bachelor  minister  of  her  majesty,  when  he 
came  officially  to  announce  the  marriage  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales — "  Lord  Lyons,  go  thou  and  do  likewise  ;" 
and  he  looked  at  Forbes  when  he  told  it,  which  made 
Miss  Lamont  blush,  and  appear  what  the  artist  had  de- 
scribed her  to  King — the  sweetest  thing  in  life.  Mrs. 
Benson  beamed  with  motherly  content,  and  was  quite 
as  tearful  as  ungrammatical,  but  her  mind  was  practi- 
cal and  forecasting.  "  There'll  have  to  be,"  she  con- 
fided to  Miss  Lamont,  "  more  curtains  in  the  parlor, 
and  I  don't  know  but  new  paper."  Mr.  Meigs  was 
not  present.  Mrs.  Farquhar  noticed  this,  and  Mrs. 
23 


354  Their  Pilgrimage. 

Benson  remembered  that  he  had  said  something  about 
going  down  to  North  Conway,  which  gave  King  an 
opportunity  to  say  to  Mrs.  Farquhar  that  she  ought 
not  to  despair,  for  Mr.  Meigs  evidently  moved  in  a 
circle,  and  was  certain  to  cross  her  path  again.  "  I 
trust  so,"  she  replied.  "  I've  been  his  only  friend 
through  all  this  miserable  business."  The  dinner  was 
not  a  great  success.  There  was  too  much  self -con- 
sciousness all  round,  and  nobody  was  witty  and  brill- 
iant. 

The  next  morning  King  took  Irene  to  the  Crystal 
Cascade.  When  he  used  to  frequent  this  pretty  spot 
as  a  college  boy,  it  had  seemed  to  him  the  ideal  place 
for  a  love  scene  —  much  better  than  the  steps  of  a 
hotel.  He  said  as  much  when  they  were  seated  at  the 
foot  of  the  fall.  It  is  a  charming  cascade  fed  by  the 
water  that  comes  down  Tuckerman's  Ravine.  But 
more  beautiful  than  the  fall  is  the  stream  itself,  foam- 
ing down  through  the  bowlders,  or  lying  in  deep  lim- 
pid pools  which  reflect  the  sky  and  the  forest.  The 
water  is  as  cold  as  ice  and  as  clear  as  cut  glass  ;  few 
mountain  streams  in  the  wrorld,  probably,  are  so  abso- 
lutely without  color.  "  I  followed  it  up  once,"  King 
was  saying,  by  way  of  filling  in  the  pauses  with  per- 
sonal revelations,  "  to  the  source.  The  woods  on  the 
side  are  dense  and  impenetrable,  and  the  only  way 
was  to  keep  in  the  stream^and  climb  over  the  bowl- 
ders. There  are  innumerable  slides  and  cascades  and 
pretty  falls,  and  a  thousand  beauties  and  surprises.  I 
finally  came  to  a  marsh,  a  thicket  of  alders,  and  around 
this  the  mountain  closed  in  an  amphitheatre  of  naked 
perpendicular  rock  a  thousand  feet  high.  I  made  my 


Their  Pilgrimage.  355 

way  along  the  stream  through  the  thicket  till  I  came 
to  a  great  bank  and  arch  of  snow — it  was  the  last  of 
July — from  under  which  the  stream  flowed.  Water 
dripped  in  many  little  rivulets  down  the  face  of  the 
precipices — after  a  rain  there  are  said  to  be  a  thousand 
cascades  there.  I  determined  to  climb  to  the  summit, 
and  go  back  by  the  Tip-top  House.  It  does  not  look 
so  from  a  little  distance,  but  there  is  a  rough,  zigzag 
sort  of  path  on  one  side  of  the  amphitheatre,  and  I 
found  this,  and  scrambled  up.  When  I  reached  the 
top  the  sun  was  shining,  and  although  there  was  noth- 
ing around  me  but  piles  of  granite  rocks,  without  any 
sign  of  a  path,  I  knew  that  I  had  my  bearings  so  that 
I  could  either  reach  the  house  or  a  path  leading  to  it. 
I  stretched  myself  out  to  rest  a  few  moments,  and 
suddenly  the  scene  was  completely  shut  in  by  a  fog. 
[Irene  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  King's.]  I 
couldn't  tell  where  the  sun  was,  or  in  what  direction 
the  hut  lay,  and  the  danger  was  that  I  would  wander 
off  on  a  spur,  as  the  lost  usually  do.  But  I  knew 
where  the  ravine  was,  for  I  was  still  on  the  edge 
of  it." 

"Why,"  asked  Irene,  trembling  at  the  thought  of 
that  danger  so  long  ago — "  why  didn't  you  go  back 
down  the  ravine  ?" 

"  Because,"  and  King  took  up  the  willing  little 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  looked  steadily 
in  her  eyes — "  because  that  is  not  my  way.  It  was 
nothing.  I  made  what  I  thought  was  a  very  safe  cal- 
culation, starting  from  the  ravine  as  a  base,  to  strike 
the  Crawford  bridle-path  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
west  of  the  house.  I  hit  it — but  it  shows  how  little 


356  Their  Pilgrimage. 

one  can  tell  of  his  course  in  a  fog — I  struck  it  within 
a  rod  of  the  house !  It  was  lucky  for  me  that  I  did 
not  go  two  rods  further  east." 

Ah  me !  how  real  and  still  present  the  peril  seemed 
to  the  girl !  "  You  will  solemnly  promise  me,  solemn- 
ly, will  you  not,  Stanhope,  never  to  go  there  again — 
never — without  me  ?" 

The  promise  was  given.  "  I  have  a  note,"  said  King, 
after  the  promise  was  recorded  and  sealed,  "to  show 
you.  It  came  this  morning.  It  is  from  Mrs.  Bartlett 
Glow." 

"  Perhaps  I'd  rather  not  see  it,"  said  Irene,  a  little 
stiffly. 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  message  to  you.     I'll  read  it." 

It  was  dated  at  Newport. 

"  MY  DEAK  STANHOPE, — The  weather  has  changed. 
I  hope  it  is  more  congenial  where  you  are.  It  is 
horrid  here.  I  am  in  a  bad  humor,  chiefly  about  the 
cook.  Don't  think  I'm  going  to  inflict  a  letter  on 
you.  You  don't  deserve  it  besides.  But  I  should 
like  to  know  Miss  Benson's  address.  We  shall  be  at 
home  in  October,  late,  and  I  want  her  to  come  and 
make  me  a  little  visit.  If  you  happen  to  see  her, 
give  her  my  love,  and  believe  me  your  affectionate 
cousin,  PENELOPE." 

The  next  day  they  explored  the  wonders  of  the 
Notch,  and  the  next  were  back  in  the  serene  atmos- 
phere of  the  Profile  House.  How  lovely  it  all  was  ; 
how  idyllic  ;  what  a  bloom  there  was  on  the  hills  ; 
how  amiable  everybody  seemed ;  how  easy  it  was  to 


Their  Pilgrimage, 


357 


be  kind  and  considerate  !  King  wished  lie  could  meet 
a  beggar  at  every  turn.  I  know  he  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  some  elderly  maiden  ladies  at  the  hotel, 
who  thought  him  the  most  gentlemanly  and  good 
young  man  they  had  ever  seen.  Ah  !  if  one  could 
always  be  in  love  and  always  young ! 

They  went  one  day  by  invitation,  Irene  and  Marion 
and  King  and  the  artist — as  if  it  made  any  difference 
where  they  went — to  Lonesome  Lake,  a  private  pond 
and  fishing -lodge  on  the  mountain  -  top,  under  the 
ledge  of  Cannon.  There,  set  in  a  rim  of  forest  and 
crags,  lies  a  charming  little  lake — which  the  mountain 
holds  like  a  mirror  for  the  sky  and  the  clouds  and  the 


FISHING-LODGE,   LONESOME  LAKE. 


358  Their  Pilgrimage. 

sailing  hawks — full  of  speckled  trout,  which  have  had 
to  be  educated  by  skilful  sportsmen  to  take  the  fly. 
From  this  lake  one  sees  the  whole  upper  range  of 
Lafayette,  gray  and  purple  against  the  sky.  On  the 
bank  is  a  log  cabin  touched  with  color,  with  great 
chimneys,  and  as  luxuriously  comfortable  as  it  is  pict- 
uresque. 

While  dinner  was  preparing  the  whole  party  were 
on  the  lake  in  boats,  equipped  with  fishing  apparatus, 
and  if  the  trout  had  been  in  half  as  willing  humor  as 
the  fisher,  it  would  have  been  a  bad  day  for  them. 
But  perhaps  they  apprehended  that  it  was  merely  a 
bridal  party,  and  they  were  leaping  all  over  the  lake, 
flipping  their  tails  in  the  sun,  and  scorning  all  the  vis- 
ible wiles.  Fish,  they  seemed  to  say,  are  not  so  easily 
caught  as  men. 

There  appeared  to  be  a  good  deal  of  excitement  in 
the  boat  that  carried  the  artist  and  Miss  Lamont.  It 
was  fly-fishing  under  extreme  difficulties.  The  artist, 
who  kept  his  flies  a  good  deal  of  the  time  out  of  the 
boat,  frankly  confessed  that  he  would  prefer  an  honest 
worm  and  hook,  or  a  net,  or  even  a  grappling-iron. 
Miss  Lamont,  with  a  great  deal  of  energy,  kept  her 
line  whirling  about,  and  at  length,  on  a  successful 
cast,  landed  the  artist's  hat  among  the  water-lilies. 
Th,ere  was  nothing  discouraging  in  this,  and  they  both 
resumed  operations  with  cheerfulness  and  enthusiasm. 
But  the  result  of  every  other  cast  was  entanglement 
of  each  other's  lines,  and  King  noticed  that  they  spent 
most  of  their  time  together  in  the  middle  of  the  boat, 
getting  out  of  snarls.  And  at  last,  drifting  away  down 
to  the  outlet,  they  seemed -to  have  given  up  fishing  for 


360  Their  Pilgrimage. 

the  more  interesting  occupation.  The  clouds  drifted 
on  ;  the  fish  leaped  ;  the  butcher-bird  called  from  the 
shore  ;  the  sun  was  purpling  Lafayette.  There  were 
kinks  in  the  leader  that  would  not  come  out,  the  lines 
were  inextricably  tangled.  The  cook  made  the  signals 
for  dinner,  and  sent  his  voice  echoing  over  the  lake 
time  and  again  before  these  devoted  anglers  heard  or 
heeded.  At  last  they  turned  the  prow  to  the  landing, 
Forbes  rowing,  and  Marion  dragging  her  hand  in  the 
water,  and  looking  as  if  she  had  never  cast  a  line. 
King  was  ready  to  pull  the  boat  on  to  the  float,  and 
Irene  stood  by  the  landing  expectant.  In  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  was  one  poor  little  trout,  his  tail  curled 
up  and  his  spots  faded. 

"  Whose  trout  is  that  ?"  asked  Irene. 

"  It  belongs  to  both  of  us,"  said  Forbes,  who  seemed 
to  have  some  difficulty  in  adjusting  his  oars. 

"  But  who  caught  it  ?" 

"  Both  of  us,"  said  Marion,  stepping  out  of  the  boat; 
"  we  really  did."  There  was  a  heightened  color  in  her 
face  and  a  little  excitement  in  her  manner  as  she  put 
her  arm  round  Irene's  waist  and  they  walked  up  to 
the  cabin.  "  Yes,  it  is  true,  but  you  are  not  to  say 
anything  about  it  yet,  dear,  for  Mr.  Forbes  has  to 
make  his  way,  you  know." 

When  they  walked  down  the  mountain  the  sun  was 
setting.  Half-way  down,  at  a  sharp  turn  in  the  path, 
the  trees  are  cut  away  just  enough  to  make  a  frame, 
in  which  Lafayette  appears  like  an  idealized  picture 
of  a  mountain.  The  sun  was  still  on  the  heights, 
which  were  calm,  strong,  peaceful.  They  stood  gazing 
at  this  heavenly  vision  till  the  rose  had  deepened  into 


Their  Pilgrimage.  361 

violet,  and  then  with  slow  steps  descended  through  the 
fragrant  woods. 

In  October  no  region  in  the  North  has  a  monopoly 
of  beauty,  but  there  is  a  certain  refinement,  or  it  may 
be  a  repose,  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  which  is  in  a  man- 
ner typical  of  a  distinct  phase  of  American  fashion. 
There,  is  here  a  note  of  country  life,  of  retirement, 
suggestive  of  the  old-fashioned  "country -seat."  It 
is  differentiated  from  the  caravansary  or  the  cottage 
life  in  the  great  watering-places.  Perhaps  it  expresses 
in  a  sincerer  way  an  innate  love  of  rural  existence. 
Perhaps  it  is  only  a  whim  of  fashion.  Whatever  it 
may  be,  there  is  here  a  moment  of  pause,  a  pensive 
air  of  the  closing  scene.  The  estates  are  ample,  farms 
in  fact,  with  a  sort  of  villa  and  park  character,  woods, 
pastures,  meadows.  When  the  leaves  turn  crimson 
and  brown  and  yellow,  and  the  frequent  lakes  reflect 
the  tender  sky  and  the  glory  of  the  autumn  foliage, 
there  is  much  driving  over  the  hills  from  country 
place  to  country  place ;  there  are  lawn-tennis  parties 
on  the  high  lawns,  whence  the  players  in  the  pauses 
of  the  game  can  look  over  vast  areas  of  lovely  coun- 
try; there  are  open-air  f§tes,  chance  meetings  at  the 
club-house,  chats  on  the  highway,  walking  excursions, 
leisurely  dinners.  In  this  atmosphere  one  is  on  the 
lookout  for  an  engagement,  and  a  wedding  here  has  a 
certain  eclat.  When  one  speaks  of  Great  Barrington 
or  Stockbridge  or  Lenox  in  the  autumn,  a  certain  idea 
of  social  position  is  conveyed. 

Did  Their  Pilgrimage  end  on  these  autumn  heights? 
To  one  of  them,  I  know,  the  colored  landscape,  the 


362  Their  Pilgrimage. 

dreamy  atmosphere,  the  unique  glory  that  comes  in 
October  days,  were  only  ecstatic  suggestions  of  the 
life  that  opened  before  her.  Love  is  victorious  over 
any  mood  of  nature,  even  when  exquisite  beauty  is 
used  to  heighten  the  pathos  of  decay.  Irene  raved 
about  the  scenery.  There  is  no  place  in  the  world 
beautiful  enough  to  have  justified  her  enthusiasm, 
and  there  is  none  ugly  enough  to  have  killed  it. 

I  do  not  say  that  Irene's  letters  to  Mr.  King  were 
entirely  taken  up  with  descriptions  of  the  beauty  of 
Lenox.  That  young  gentleman  had  gone  on  business 
to  Georgia.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benson  were  in  Cyrusville. 
Irene  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Farquhar  at  the  house  of 
a  friend.  These  letters  had  a  great  deal  of  Lovers' 
Latin  in  them — enough  to  have  admitted  the  writer 
into  Yale  College  if  this  were  a  qualification.  The 
letters  she  received  were  equally  learned,  and  the 
fragments  Mrs.  Farquhar  was  permitted  to  hear  were 
so  interrupted  by  these  cabalistic  expressions  that 
she  finally  begged  to  be  excused.  She  said  she  did 
not  doubt  that  to  be  in  love  was  a  liberal  education, 
but  pedantry  was  uninteresting.  Latin  might  be  con- 
venient at  this  stage ;  but  later  on,  for  little  tiffs  and 
reconciliations,  French  would  be  much  more  useful. 

One  of  these  letters  southward  described  a  wed- 
ding. The  principals  in  it  were  unknown  to  King, 
but  in  the  minute  detail  of  the  letter  there  was  a 
personal  flavor  which  charmed  him.  He  would  have 
been  still  more  charmed  could  he  have  seen  the  girl's 
radiant  face  as  she  dashed  it  off.  Mrs.  Farquhar 
watched  her  with  a  pensive  interest  awhile,  went  be- 


Their  Pilgrimage. 


363 


hind  her  chair,  and,  leaning  over,  kissed  her  forehead, 
and  then  with  slow  step  and  sad  eyes  passed  out  to 
the  piazza,  and  stood  with  her  face  to  the  valley  and 
the  purple  hills.  But  it  was  a  faded  landscape  she 
saw. 


BY  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  IN  THE  WORLD.  A  Novel 
pp.  iv.,  396.  Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  $1  50. 

STUDIES  IN  THE  SOUTH  AND  WEST,  with  Com- 
ments on  Canada.  pp.  iv.,  484.  Post  8vo,  Half 
Leather,  $1  75. 

A  witty,  instructive  book,  as  brilliant  in  its  pictures  as  it  is  warm 
in  its  kindness ;  and  we  feel  sure  that  it  is  with  a  patriotic  impulse 
that  we  say  that  we  shall  be  glad  to  learn  that  the  number  of  its 
readers  bears  some  proportion  to  its  merits  and  its  power  for  good. 
—3".  T.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

Sketches  made  from  studies  of  the  country  and  the  people  upon 
the  ground. .  .  .  They  are  the  opinions  of  a  man  and  a  scholar  with- 
out prejudices,  and  only  anxious  to  state  the  facts  as  they  were.  .  .  . 
When  told  in  the  pleasant  and  instructive  way  of  Mr.  Warner  the 
studies  are  as  delightful  as  they  are  instructive.— Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

Perhaps  the  most  accurate  and  graphic  account  of  these  portions 
of  the  country  that  has  appeared,  taken  all  in  all.  ...  It  is  a  book 
most  charming— a  book  that  no  American  can  fail  to  enjoy,  appre- 
«  ciate,  and  highly  prize. — Boston  Traveller. 

THEIR  PILGRIMAGE.  Richly  Illustrated  by  C.  a 
REINHAKT.  pp.  viii.,  364.  Post  8vo,  Half  Leather, 

$2  00. 

Mr.  Warner's  pen-pictures  of  the  characters  typical  of  each  re- 
sort, of  the  manner  of  life  followed  at  each,  of  the  humor  and  ab- 
surdities peculiar  to  Saratoga,  or  Newport,  or  Bar  Harbor,  as  the 
case  may  be,  are  as  good-natured  as  they  are  clever.  The  satire, 
when  there  is  any,  is  of  the  mildest,  and  the  general  tone  is  that  of 
one  glad  to  look  on  the  brightest  side  of  the  cheerful,  pleasure-seek- 
ing world  with  which  he  mingles. — Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 

Mr.  Keinhart's  spirited  and  realistic  illustrations  are  very  attract- 
ive, and  contribute  to  make  an  unusually  handsome  book.  We 
have  already  commented  jpon  the  earlier  chapters  of  the  text;  and 
the  happy  blending  of  travel  and  fiction  which  we  looked  forward 
to  with  confidence  did,  in  fact,  distinguish  this  story  among  the 
serials  of  the  year. — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

A  ny  of  the  above  works  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BEN-HUR:  A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRIST. 

I3y  LEW.  WALLACE.     New  Edition,     pp.  552.     16mo, 
Cloth,  $1  50. 


Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of 
this  romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of  Mr. 
Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  patlietic  eloquence.  The  scenes 
described  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power  and  skill  of 
an  accomplished  master  of  style. — N.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brilliant.  .  .  . 
We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes ;  we  witness  a  sea- 
fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman  galley,  domestic  in- 
teriors at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the  tribes  of  the  desert;  pal- 
aces, prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman  youth,  the  houses  of  pious 
families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  exciting  incident;  everything  is  ani- 
mated, vivid,  and  glowing. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

From  the  opening  of  the  volume  to  the  very  close  the  reader's  interest 
will  be  kept  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  novel  will  be  pronounced  by  all 
one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  day. — Boston  Post. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and  there 
is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc.,  to  greatly 
strengthen  the  semblance. — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"Ben-Hur"  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is  laid, 
and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  realize  the 
nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Roman  life  at 
Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

It  is  really  Scripture  history  of  Christ's  time  clothed  gracefully  and  deli- 
cately in  the  flowing  and  loose  drapery  of  modern  fiction.  .  .  .  Few  late 
works  of  fiction  excel  it  in  genuine  ability  and  interest. — N.  Y.  Graphic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  delightful  books.  It  is  as  real  and 
warm  as  life  itself,  and  as  attractive  as  the  grandest  and  most  heroic  chap- 
ters of  history. — Indianapolis  Journal. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional  novel 
and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States 
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THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  JANIZARIES. 

A  Tale  of  the  Times  of  Scanderbeg  and  the  Fall  of  Constan- 
tinople. By  JAMES  M.  LUDLOW,  D.D.,  Litt.D.  pp.  iv., 
404.  16rno,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  author  writes  clearly  and  easily;  his  descriptions  are  often  of  much 
brilliancy,  while  the  whole  setting  of  the  story  is  of  that  rich  Oriental  char- 
acter which  fires  the  fancy. — Boston  Courier. 

Strong  in  its  central  historical  character,  abounding  in  incident,  rapid 
and  stirring  in  action,  animated  and  often  brilliant  in  style. — Christian 
t7hion,N.Y. 

Something  new  and  striking  interests  us  in  almost  every  chapter.  The 
peasantry  of  the  Balkans,  the  training  and  government  of  the  Janizaries, 
the  interior  of  Christian  and  Moslem  camps,  the  horrors  of  raids  and  bat- 
tles, the  violence  of  the  Sultan,  the  tricks  of  spies,  the  exploits  of  heroes, 
engage  Mr.  Ludlow's  fluent  pen. — A".  Y.  Tribune. 

Dr.  Ludlow's  style  is  a  constant  reminder  of  Walter  Scott,  and  the  book 
is  to  retain  a  permanent  place  in  literature. —  Observer,  N.  Y. 

An  altogether  admirable  piece  of  work — picturesque,  truthful,  and  dra- 
ma tic.  — Newark  A dvertutr. 

A  most  romantic,  enjoyable  tale.  ...  As  affording  views  of  inner  life  in 
the  East  as  long  ago  as  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  this  tale  ought 
to  have  a  charm  for  many;  but  it  is  full  enough  of  incident, wherever 
the  theatre  of  its  action  might  be  found,  to  do  this. —  Troy  Press. 

The  author  has  used  his  material  with  skill,  weaving  the  facts  of  history 
into  a  story  crowded  with  stirring  incidents  and  unexpected  situations,  and 
a  golden  thread  of  love-making,  under  extreme  difficulties,  runs  through 
the  narrative  to  a  happy  issue. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

One  of  the  strongest  and  most  fascinating  historical  novels  of  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century. — Boston  Pilot. 

A  refreshing  and  remarkable  production.  There  is  here  no  wearisome 
soul-searching,  and  no  minute  analysis  of  the  trivial,  but  a  straightforward 
romance,  written  almost  in  the  great  manner  of  Scott.  As  a  story,  it  is 
absorbingly  interesting  from  first  page  to  last.  As  a  resuscitation  of 
history,  it  has  the  accuracy  without  the  pedantry  of  the  works  of  German 
and  other  moderns.  As  a  presentation  of  the  physical  aspects  of  the 
Balkan  peninsula,  it  is  very  striking,  and  shows  close  familiarity  with  the 
regions  described.  As  a  study  of  the  life  and  manner  of  the  remote 
epoch  with  which  it  deals,  it  exhibits,  without  ostentation,  a  careful  and 
minute  research;  and  as  a  literary  composition,  it  has  more  merits  and 
fewer  faults  than  most  of  the  books  written  in  this  age  of  hurried  pro- 
duction.— Dial,  Chicago. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

HARPER  &  BROTIIF.RS  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part 
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BY  W.  D.  HOWEllS. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DREAM.     A  Story.     12mo,  Paper, 
50  cents  ;  Cloth,  $1  00. 

A  HAZARD  OF  NEW  FORTUNES.      Illustrated.      8vo, 
Paper,  75  cents;   12mo,  Cloth,  2  vols.,  $2  00. 

Never,  certainly,  has  Mr.  Howells  written  more  brilliantly,  more  clearly, 
more  firmly,  or  more  attractively  than  in  this  instance. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

This  new  novel  is  distinguished  by  the  possession  in  an  unusual  de- 
gree of  all  the  familiar  qualities  of  Mr.  Howells's  style.  The  humor  of 
it,  particularly,  is  abundant  and  delightful. — Philadelphia  Press. 

MODERN  ITALIAN  POETS.    Essays  and  Versions.     With 
Portraits.      12mo,  Half  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Mr.  Howells  has  in  this  work  enriched  American  literature  by  a  great 
deal  of  delicate,  discriminating,  candid,  and  sympathetic  criticism.  He 
has  enabled  the  general  public  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  modern  Italian 
poetry  which  they  could  have  acquired  in  no  other  way. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

ANNIE  KILBURN.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Mr.  Howells  has  certainly  never  given  us  in  one  novel  so  many  por- 
traits of  intrinsic  interest.  Annie  Kilburn  herself  is  a  masterpiece  of 
quietly  veracious  art — the  art  which  depends  for  its  effect  on  unswerv- 
ing fidelity  to  the  truth  of  Nature.  ...  It  certainly  seems  to  us  the 
very  best  book  that  Mr.  Howells  has  written. — Spectator,  London. 

APRIL  HOPES.     12 mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Mr.  Howells  never  wrote  a  more  bewitching  book.  It  is  useless  to 
deny  the  rarity  and  worth  of  the  skill  that  can  report  so  perfectly  and 
with  such  exquisite  humor  all  the  fugacious  and  manifold  emotions  of 
the  modern  maiden  and  her  lover. — Philadelphia  Press. 

THE    MOUSE-TRAP,   and   Other   Farces.       12mo,   Cloth, 

$1  00. 

Mr.  Howells's  gift  of  lively  appreciation  of  the  humors  that  lie  on  the 
surface  of  conduct  and  conversation,  and  his  skill  in  reproducing  them 
in  literary  form,  make  him  peculiarly  successful  in  his  attempts  at  grace 
ful,  delicately  humorous  dialogue. — Boston  Advertiser. 


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